


finer than sand

by Teland



Category: DCU (Comics), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Backstory, Banter, Blood Drinking, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dogboys & Doggirls, F/M, Families of Choice, Fingerfucking, First Time, Frottage, Gangbang, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Hypnotism, Jealousy, Knotting, LGBTQ Character of Color, Lactation Kink, M/M, Magic, Making Out, Master/Pet, Masturbation, Multi, Multiple Endings, Multiple Orgasms, Multiverse, Oral Sex, POV Character of Color, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Pregnant Sex, Pseudo-Incest, Rimming, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Seduction, Sexual Fantasy, Soul Bond, Telepathy, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Time Travel, Vaginal Sex, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 19:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 139,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5939706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We get what we *want* when we reach for things, son. We get what we *need* when we do. When we *don't* reach for things? We don't bloody get them. I didn't learn that lesson for far too long. *You* are wiser than I am."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Definitely take the bottle with you.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/gifts), [mellyflori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/gifts), [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine, except for what is. 
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: AU-ized mentions of things from first and second series, but no real spoilers. Multiple timelines, one of which starts not long after 1x05, "Homecoming". 
> 
> Author's Note: Pixie has been asking for a long, long time for a story that puts all of these characters in one place. Jack waned more of these characters full *stop*. Houndstar gave me two songs by Whitehorse — "Achilles' Desire" and "Devil's Got A Gun" — that made me *need* to write... this. (Warning for the curious — "Achilles' Desire" features the use of an ethnic slur. You might want to look up the lyrics first.) 
> 
> Acknowledgments: It took a *long* time to get this out, with many fits and starts. I couldn't have done it, at all, without Pixie, Melly, Spice, Houndstar, Greyandgold, and, of course, my Jack. Some of you were with me every day, all day, and I can't express my gratitude for that enough. Y'all know I need that kind of hand-holding, and you provided. I thank you for that. It means the world.

"All *right*, Fearless," Kitos says, slamming the tumblers down onto Treville's table and straddling the chair opposite Treville's own. It only protests feebly — its construction is sound enough to stand up to Kitos's magnificent bulk. The man pours generously from the bottle still in his other hand — "You're going to explain to me this thing you did with the witches —" 

"I'm really not," Treville says and downs half his wine in a swallow. 

"You *are*!" 

"I'm not." 

"You —" Kitos scowls at him fearsomely.

This is nothing to be concerned about — Kitos scowls fearsomely when he has a bloody splinter — but Treville still avoids it.

Takes in the tavern as a whole — 

Does not, does not, does *not* grip the little wooden dog in his breast pocket. 

The dog that wants him to know that his Amina-love's still unnamed — and *unborn* — babe is safe and warm and dozing inside her — 

The dog that's part of him now, because — and all three of the witches were absolutely clear about this — even if he lost the little wooden dog, even if the thing shattered into a million pieces — 

Well. 

He'd still be able to point to where the babe is sleeping inside Amina. 

He'd still be able to hunt him down. 

He'd still be able to keep him safe. 

And *that* — 

Treville lets his gaze pause — *just* pause — on the shadowy corner where Reynard has a serving maid serving *him* — 

His head is thrown back, exposing the long, pale column of his throat — 

The tie in his fox-red hair is loose — 

And he's laughing. 

He's laughing. 

He's — 

He's laughing, and it's *not* for Treville, and it never *will* be for Treville — not like that — 

And, for the first time in the nearly three years they've known each other, that thought doesn't fill him with bile and self-loathing. 

It —

"Brother..." And Kitos's usual rumbling growl of a voice is — too cautious. Too worried. 

"Kitos —" 

"Tell me you didn't do — whatever you did because of Reynard." 

Treville doesn't squeeze his eyes shut, or clench his jaw, or grip his tumbler —

"Ah, *fuck*! What did you do?!" 

— it's just that Kitos *and* Reynard both know him far too well for Treville to get away with just hiding *standard* stress reactions — 

"*Treville* —" 

Treville gestures for quiet — 

Looks round the tavern again — it's too full. He surprises himself with a growl — 

Kitos blinks, too — 

And Treville stands, grabs the bottle, and urges Kitos to follow him outside. 

Kitos is at his back immediately, and that means so much, that's (pack) — 

And sometimes, now, there are thoughts that belong more to the dog than to the man, but — 

("You are the dog, Treville.") 

And Ife had grinned at him from over a bowl of the soup Amina had made for all of them.

("I —" 

"You. Are. The dog. The statue is your focus, your... mm. I don't know the French words for this. It'll make you stronger — if you use it right. But it wouldn't do a damned thing if you weren't the dog. See?") 

He sees. 

He sees a lot of things now, and, when the door to the kitchen opens *as* Treville opens the door to the alley and changes the air currents just right — 

He smells Reynard on the edge of spending. 

He smells that sweetness, that musk — 

That *particular* salt his sweat gets — 

Treville walks *faster* — 

"Easy, *easy*, brother —" 

Into the alley, then, into — 

"And do we have to stand *in* the puddles of piss?" 

Treville takes a *long* swig from the bottle of wine, then hands it over — 

Kitos takes an even longer one, obligingly. 

Neither of them lean against a wall. 

Neither of them breathe deeply. 

Two drunk laundresses — Treville can smell the extra-*strong* piss they use to bleach fine clothes — stagger toward the mouth of the alley, presumably to relieve themselves of the far less rarefied piss in their bladders, and he can't — 

Treville growls again, and this time — 

This time, it doesn't sound human, at all. 

And Kitos is holding him — *gripping* him. 

And — 

And the laundresses are running away. 

"Brother. You. Talk. Talk *now*." 

Treville pants — 

And pants — 

"I'm. I'm a dog now —" 

"I'd already *gotten* that," Kitos says, spinning Treville and bending down — 

Studying him — 

"I think your eyes were glowing for a moment —" 

"N-no —" 

"Just — or maybe shining? *Like* a dog's? Fucking shit, brother, what did those witches *do* to you?" 

Treville snarls and turns away — "Nothing I didn't ask for —" 

"Then tell me what you *asked* for! We have to —" *Kitos* growls, standing up straight and darkening the whole world with his massive body. It. 

"You sound so human when you growl," Treville blurts — and looks at the shining, fragrant wall, instead — 

Kitos takes a deep breath — 

A deep, *shuddering* breath — 

"You maybe figured out that you *don't* sound human anymore?" 

Treville nods once. 

"You're still Treville. You're still our mate. You're still our *brother*. So help us... help us." 

Treville swallows and — 

"You — I already know Reynard doesn't know shite about this. That if he did... well, it'd be all different. Right?"

Treville — can't. He just. He just shudders. 

"Right, so. We *both* know he's going to go up like Greek fire —" 

"Kitos, have you been sodding *learning*?" And Treville looks up — and up — 

And Kitos rubs the side of his crooked — broken and healed rather rakishly when they were still boys in the regular Army — nose with one finger. "It's Laurent, innit? He sodding *loves* teaching me what the hell you and Reynard are talking about when you get fancy. It gets his hopes up that I'll let him teach me how to read better —" 

"Oh, you bastard —" 

"Oi, we gotta keep him happy, don't we? He's *going* to be the Captain soon enough." 

Treville wags his head. That's entirely true. 

"*So*. *Reynard* —" 

"I — know he's going to be angry —" 

"What *did* you tell him, eh?" 

Well...

"Sodding hell. Did you tell him something — I don't — no. I *do* know how your mind works after all this bloody time. You told him you were doing something good for *you*."

Fuck — 

Kitos smacks him *hard* with one of those massive, hairy hands — 

Catches him before he'd go careening off a wall — 

"Now tell me why I'm not doing that again, you arse!" 

Treville winces and shakes himself. "I *am* stronger than I used to be. In *multiple* ways, some of which aren't politic to *talk* about." 

"Shit." 

"Yes." 

"*Shit* —" 

"Yes —" 

"Are we going to have to keep your silly arse from being hanged? Or drowned? Or burnt or some shite —" 

"We're not in bloody *Spain* —" 

"We go to bloody Spain all the bloody — wait, wait, I'm getting distracted," Kitos says, and takes another deep breath. And smacks him — 

"*Ow* —" 

"What did you bloody *do*?" 

"I — fuck. I agreed to... take up arms in defense of a child." 

"What? But... that's not..."

"It isn't. Or it wouldn't be, if my agreement wasn't magically bound with assorted bodily fluids and..." Treville growls and paces a little — 

And a little more — 

And — "I can feel him. The boy. He hasn't even been *born*, yet, but I can feel that he's waking up — a little. As much as a babe can before he's born. I can feel that he's warm, and content, and safe. I can feel that his *mother* —" 

"*Who* is his — oh. Shit. *Shit*. Is it *Amina*?" 

Treville doesn't grit his *teeth* —

"It's sodding *Amina*, meaning that — what happens when you want to get *married*, you great ponce?" 

"I'm not going to get married and you *know* it — and if you hit me for that, I'll bite your hand off." 

Kitos blinks. "Not cut it off? Shoot it off?" 

Treville bares his teeth —

Kitos nods once. "Fine. You won't get married. You're letting your line die. You — or." 

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose. "What." 

"Adopt the boy." 

"What are you —" 

"You know it's only a matter of time before Belgard sets Amina and the baby aside. You — you already did this incredibly *crazy* thing, and I'm assuming it's permanent —" 

"It is —" 

"So adopt him." 

"I — are you — what are you —" 

"Are you actually looking at me like *I'm* the mad one?" Kitos snorts. "You're going to draw a lot of sodding attention leaping to the fray every time the ex-slave's boy gets in a sticky situation —" 

"Don't you talk about her —" 

"But if he's *your* boy...?"

And. 

The thing about Kitos that's easy to forget, what with the fact that he's a foot taller than most men, weighs twenty stone, and is covered with hair — 

"You're a smart bastard, Kitos." 

"You take that back *right* now, or I'll scruff you and drag you back in to talk to —" 

And then Reynard screams. It's — 

It's not like any sound Treville has heard him make before, nothing of pain or ecstasy or rage. It's — 

It's fear, actual *terror*, and — 

And he and Kitos are moving as one, moving *fast* — 

But. 

The wall is gone. 

The *tavern* is gone — 

The — 

There are piles of refuse, of broken furniture and glass, and Reynard is standing on one of those piles, staring at his empty hands as if they hold the most horrifying secrets of the universe — 

His *cock* is still out — 

But there's nothing *here*, nothing — 

Everything that had *been* here had *burned* — 

And burned down long enough ago that the scents are...

Kitos is helping Reynard down from the pile of rubble, and that's — 

That's good, because there's something very wrong here — wrong beyond, even, the fact that they had somehow managed to just *miss* a devastating blaze that had destroyed half a block's worth of businesses and buildings. 

There. 

The babe doesn't feel the same. 

The babe doesn't feel (unborn) the *same* — 

He can't feel *Amina* — 

"Mon frère, one moment she was in my arms, plump and sweet, and the next she was burnt and screaming, silent but still screaming —" 

"Easy, easy, Reynard, you just had too much wine —" 

"No," Treville says. "I don't think he did." 

Kitos and Reynard look at him — Kitos *sharply* — 

Treville reaches into his tunic and pulls out the little dog talisman, unsurprised to find it hot to the touch and... eager. 

Needy for him to — 

"We have to go," Treville says, tucking the talisman away again — 

"Mon cher. Now would be a *good* time to explain something to your brothers," Reynard says, and gives him a *flat* look with those olive eyes. 

Which — 

Treville swallows and nods. "I'm magically bound to Amina's son now —" 

"What — *why*?" 

"Because I wanted to be," Treville says, and stares Reynard down — as much as he can. 

He's getting away with it far, far more because Reynard had found himself fucking a screaming corpse tonight than for any other reason. 

"*Fine*," Reynard says, fastening his breeches and trousers. "You wanted to be bound to an unborn — and what happens if this child dies?" 

Then I am in need, once again. Though probably not for long. "The *boy* has, somehow, been separated from his mother in the same flood of magic that did — *this*. My top priority is finding him, returning him to his mother, and then figuring out what the sodding hell *happened*."

There's just a hint of *flash* behind Reynard's eyes, violence and chaos and pleasure and the simple desire to play — and play with *him*. "And, perhaps, making someone suffer *miserably* for it...?" 

Oh, Reynard... Treville shows his teeth. "No perhaps about it, brother. Now, then. Are you boys in?" 

"Well, that depends," Kitos says, and wags the bottle he's still holding. "Can we keep abusing this while we go?"


	2. Warning people is much less fun than the alternative.

"You know I'm terrified of any and all games involving you people now, right?" And d'Artagnan's grinning, but there's just *enough* of that edge of seriousness under his grin — 

Right. Porthos knows *enough* of this story that he *looks* at Aramis — 

"Ah, always I am blamed —" 

"For *threatening my life*?" 

And *that*... is maybe something they should be doing more than joking good-naturedly about, considering — 

Considering the approximately ten *thousand* different things they all *really* need to talk about in the aftermath of Porthos's disastrous 'birthday' — 

But... 

But all Aramis is doing is giving Porthos a level, steady look and — waiting for his lead. Right. 

Porthos nods and leans in enough to throw an arm around Aramis's shoulders — 

d'Artagnan studies them for a long moment and *doesn't* look like he draws any conclusions. It — 

"You know, lad," Porthos says, and jerks his chin at him. "That's one of the things I like about you." 

d'Artagnan blinks. "What? Exactly?" 

"Other people, they size a bloke — or a couple of blokes — up and they come up with *one* answer in their heads for what that bloke's about... and they stick with that answer, no matter what. You don't do that." 

"Well... no," d'Artagnan says. "I mean, that would be... really stupid." 

"That it would," Porthos says. "Still, *most* people haven't figured that out, and it's a fair bet to assume that the average bloke on the *street* hasn't figured that out." 

d'Artagnan nods slowly — and then looks back and forth between him and Aramis. "So... is this a life lesson or... what?"

Porthos gives a wry look to Aramis — 

— who gives a rueful look *back*, before sighing and sitting forward a little — though he doesn't dislodge Porthos's arm. "I am very accustomed to people not appreciating Porthos the way they should —" 

Porthos opens his mouth — 

"And Porthos will shut his mouth and let me finish before he begins speaking again," Aramis says, without turning away from d'Artagnan. 

Porthos shuts his mouth. 

Aramis nods. "I am *very* accustomed to people assuming the worst about Porthos for the stupidest possible reasons. I... am protective. We are all protective of our loved ones, no?"

"Of course! And I do understand —" 

"Wait. Please," Aramis says, and raises two fingers. "Please imagine the person you love most in this world for me." 

d'Artagnan blushes on *cue* — 

"Ah? Good. Now imagine that when you go out to eat with them, there is always at least one person making... a comment. Of some sort. The same happens when you go out to drink, except that the comments come with blows, and attempts to maim and kill. The same happens when you go out for a *pastry*. The same happens when you are *not* with them, but? They do not *tell* you about these things, not anymore, because they know that you react so badly that you cause *them* pain," Aramis says, and bares his teeth. 

Porthos winces —

"Now. Now. You know — even deep within your heart — that your brothers do not feel these terrible things, and that if they ever were to express doubt about your greatest love, even in his hour of need, that it would not be because of something *base*.

"But.

"You may, perhaps, react poorly." 

And that... 

That was a lot of things that they haven't actually — 

"Aramis..." 

Aramis squeezes his eyes shut. "Perhaps... perhaps my Porthos can tell himself that his Aramis has, once again, taken his flair for the dramatic much, much too far." 

"Never did much like lies and liars." 

Aramis *shudders* — and reaches over to *grip* Porthos's knee. Just that. 

He doesn't actually look at Porthos. 

And d'Artagnan... is absolutely sizing them both up again. "So... um. Wait, first, I want to say that I *get* it, Aramis. I mean, I don't, and I hope I never do, but I think if people treated Constance the way they treat Porthos — except it'd be worse, because I've seen how women of color — right. Right." d'Artagnan nods and bites his lip. "I — I know you never needed my forgiveness for — uh. Anything. But... well, you have it. And... now I just have a question." 

They *all* know what the question *is* — 

"Ask," Porthos says. "It's always better... you never want to assume, if you can avoid it." And he smiles ruefully. 

d'Artagnan nods again, looking back and forth between them. "For a long time I thought you were both just... really close. And then I thought you were... more than that, but only sometimes, and not in anything like a romantic way —" 

"d'Artagnan," Aramis says, and smiles like a bloody *demon*. "Are you asking if we're fucking...?" 

d'Artagnan's jaw drops — but only for a moment before he recovers, blushing and shifting and — "Yeah, I am. I mean — *are* you?" 

"No," Aramis says, gentle and soft. 

"Oh. I — oh." 

Aramis takes a drink of his wine — 

"But we sodding *will* be *imminently*," Porthos says — 

Aramis sprays wine everywhere and starts *coughing*. Heh. 

Porthos pats his back. Solicitous, like. "When were you planning to *tell* me that you were in love with me?" 

"I — I was —" 

"Make it good, now. Good enough to explain why we had to *wait* for you to be in love with me when you're putting it to half the noblewomen in France!" 

Aramis wheezes and dabs at himself with the handkerchief —

d'Artagnan sits back in his chair and eats his roasted hazelnuts with a *supremely* interested expression on his face. 

"As an aside, lad, at least twelve of the first fifteen things I said to Aramis upon meeting him were variations on 'fuck, you're gorgeous', just to put that into the mix." 

d'Artagnan nods thoughtfully and turns back to Aramis. 

"I... ah." 

"I mean, it's not like you can say you thought he wasn't interested, right? I mean, he's always touching you, and whispering in your ear, and going off with you — I mean, I did check with the other men. They all *assume* you're fucking." 

Aramis's expression kind of curdles on his face. 

And then he covers his face. 

And then he laughs, muffled and low and pained. 

Porthos squeezes the back of his neck lightly — 

And Aramis squeezes his knee *hard*. 

"Right, changing the subject —"

"Wait, wait —" 

"Nope, no waiting," Porthos says, and *looks* at d'Artagnan — 

d'Artagnan glares at him.

Porthos *snorts*. "Sometimes, when brothers love each other very much, they have to give each other sodding *time*," he says, and kicks d'Artagnan. 

"*Ow* — *fine* — but I want more —" 

"The *game* I was going to suggest we play?" 

"Oh. Yeah?" 

"It's less a game and more a 'let's get to know each other at speed' exercise. So we don't fuck each other up quite as badly as we did." 

d'Artagnan glances over at Aramis — 

Who is *still* covering his face — 

And then he looks back at Porthos. "I'm listening. I'm — I don't want — you know I want to be... part of this. Of all of you." 

Aramis shivers and drops his hands. "You already are," he says, eyes red and voice solemn and low. 

d'Artagnan swallows and nods. "But... more." 

"More for all of us. Yes?" And Aramis looks to him — 

Porthos tugs him back until they're holding each other — 

Until Aramis has one broad hand splayed on Porthos's belly and they're just that *close* — 

He looks almost *wounded* with need — 

"Fuck, brother..." 

"It was... very easy to tell myself that you were exaggerating, or... or simply not..." And Aramis winces and shakes his head. 

"It was *extremely* sodding easy to tell myself that the seminarian didn't want any of what I was offering —" 

"Oh — God. That was never the case —" 

"You do want it?" 

And Aramis splays his hand *wide* on Porthos's belly — 

Strokes just a *little* — 

"Please..."

"We could... do this another time?" And d'Artagnan's eyes are wide as he looks back and forth between them this time. 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"Oh, God, ah —" And Aramis starts to turn away — 

To *move* away — 

Porthos can't let him. 

"*Porthos* — " 

"I think — I think we fall in love with the most beautiful people we know, inside and out," Porthos says, and stares into Aramis's eyes.

"*Fuck* —" 

"And then we fall in love with the way they love us —" 

"Yes — *yes* —" 

"And then we're wrapped up so tight that we can't even imagine a *day* without them, much less a *life*. We're..." And Porthos cups the back of Aramis's neck with one hand and just — 

Just *lets* himself touch that beard — 

That mustache —

Aramis makes a small sound — 

"We're wrapped up so tight that we can't..." And Porthos laughs breathlessly. "Shit, d'Artagnan, now would be a good time to distract us." 

d'Artagnan pauses with a hazelnut between his fingers. "Are you *sure*? I mean — really sure?" 

"He is *very* sure," Aramis says, turning *away* — 

Turning *back* — 

*Growling* — 

"I am definitely very — very sodding —" Porthos *yanks* Aramis in for a hard kiss, wet, deep, *deep* — 

Aramis *moans* — 

Aramis licks his tongue — 

Aramis *sucks* his tongue — 

It's not a brief kiss. 

It's not even remotely a brief kiss. 

Porthos frankly isn't sure *how* he manages to stop fucking Aramis's mouth and just suck his lips — 

Bite them — 

Suck them more — 

Pick Aramis up bodily and put him in the chair next to d'Artagnan — 

And then put himself on the other side of the table again. 

Right.

There.

Good. 

Porthos pants — 

Aramis pants and *grins* — 

d'Artagnan gives them a tiny show of applause. 

They bow. 

"Right, what the hell were we talking about?" 

"Whether or not my violence and disingenuousness is what has made our d'Artagnan uncomfortable with us." 

"I'm not —" 

They look at him. 

d'Artagnan snorts and raises his hands. "All right. But everyone *should* be protective of the people they care about, and everyone needs time to be sure of whether it's *safe* to be entirely honest with a stranger." 

"By which you mean," Porthos says, and throws his feet up on the table, "there's a whole *different* reason you've been uncomfortable." 

"I..." d'Artagnan gives them both looks. "I did the math, you know. Out of the three of you, Aramis is sober the most — or at least can *fake* it the most often." 

"No, no, he's definitely the most sober. Spends his livres on perfume and such." 

Aramis inclines his head. "Though Athos truly is *quite* good at pretending to be sober —" 

"Well, he bloody has to be! I've watched him every day for two *months* and he hasn't consumed less than two full bottles of wine — at *least*. Whether or *not* he remembers to eat. Whether or not he remembers to *sleep*." 

Well, now. Porthos looks to Aramis. 

Aramis smiles like a *demon* again — 

"Oh — *what*?" 

"You watch our Athos very closely, yes?" 

"I —" 

"You keep a *sharp* eye on him." 

"I just —" 

"You want to, perhaps, take care of him...?" And Aramis licks those teeth. 

"*Good* care of him...?" 

d'Artagnan blushes *hard* — and stares down at the table. 

"Aw, no, lad, none of *that*." 

"We are *only* teasing — and we mean to do it in *encouraging* ways," Aramis says, and wraps an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders, tapping his cheek with the index finger of the other hand. 

"*Exactly*," Porthos says, and folds his hands on his belly. "Sex is an *excellent* way to drag someone out of the bottle — if they're willing to be dragged. *I* certainly tried it with Athos once or twice or seventy times —" 

Aramis coughs —

"As you *might* have guessed, this was before you joined the regiment, Aramis —" 

"He *rejected* you?"

"Right, you're sounding *incensed* over there, and that's problematic —" 

"He — you — what did he *say*?" 

"'No, thank you,' and he smiled when he said it, so please stop plotting his death —"

"Oh, God, *Aramis*!" 

"I —" Aramis clears his throat. 

Twice. 

"Yes, I — yes. It's only — you never said to *me*, 'Aramis, let us go make love all night and day, and no, it is definitely not the drink talking, and yes, I will still look at you so softly the next day.'" 

"That... is... true —" 

"Did you say this to *him*?" 

"No!" 

"... oh. Never mind." 

Porthos looks at Aramis. 

d'Artagnan looks at Aramis.

Porthos *considers* — "D'you think I should?" 

Aramis opens his mouth — 

Closes it — 

"Perhaps we all should?" 

"Wait, *wait* —" 

"No, no, lovely d'Artagnan, when throwing oneself bodily at one's compatriots —" 

"Where the sodding hell *is* he, anyway? Treville wasn't *that* hacked-off with him. You don't think he's avoiding us to go get blotto somewhere else, do you?" And Porthos looks back and forth at the others.

Aramis gives about a third of a shrug. 

d'Artagnan just looks dejected, which — no. 

Porthos kicks d'Artagnan's boot lightly with his own. "We'll catch him for you, lad. We may be sodding terrible at taking care of ourselves, but we're not so bad at taking care of other people."

"I —" 

"*Especially* when 'taking care of other people' entails meddling shamelessly in their affairs." 

"Their *literal* affairs." 

"Their sticky, passionate —" 

"Oh, God — you're not — you're not making me *want* your help —" 

"But you *should*," Aramis says, and squeezes d'Artagnan tight. "We will distract Athos —" 

"Soften 'im up, like —" 

"And then, perhaps, do something other than soften — he *rejected* you?" 

Porthos snorts. "*Aramis*. I am *not* a sodding god come to *earth*." And also you're starting to make d'Artagnan think about how violent you are again, Porthos does his best to shoot directly into Aramis's *brain*. 

"You must admit that it is *very* strange —" 

"No." 

"That he —" 

"No." 

Aramis growls and turns to d'Artagnan. "*d'Artagnan*." 

"*What*?" 

"Is Porthos not handsome?" 

"Uh..." 

"Is he not tall? Strong? Witty? Brave? Personable? All things a man should be?" 

Porthos snorts. "I'll kiss him again if you want to make a break for it, lad." 

"I... I just... wait, Aramis, do you *want* Porthos to have sex with Athos?" 

"*Yes*. And then *I* will have sex with Athos, and we will all have sex with Athos together — you have a *magnificently* large cock —" 

d'Artagnan chokes on a hazelnut — 

Aramis *whacks* him on the back — 

"As an aside, lad, Aramis had almost a whole bottle of wine to himself with lunch —" 

"Why didn't you *warn* me?" 

"Much more fun not to," Porthos says, and steals d'Artagnan's bowl of nuts while he's still wheezing a bit. "Much, much more fun." 

"Oh, yes!" 

"Fuck, you're both such *arseholes* —" 

"Say, Aramis —" 

"Yes, Porthos?" 

"You're going to let me *eat* your arse, right?" 

Aramis's smile is a bit on the dreamy side — 

d'Artagnan is now punching himself in the *chest* — 

And Athos walks up to join them. 

"*There* you are, mate. What —" 

"Is d'Artagnan going to live?" 

"Oh, probably. But —" 

"Good. The Captain's missing," Athos says, in a very clear and *quiet* voice that nonetheless just takes the whole sodding world over. 

"More detail," Aramis says. "Now." 

Athos's mouth thins to a hard line. "I have very little detail to give, and what I do have is — suspect. But. I was in Treville's office with him, alone. He was dressing me down for my drunkenness. And then there was a moment when it seemed. When it seemed as though I were in a different office altogether. Specifically, my father Laurent's office when *he* was the Captain. 

"And then that illusion passed, and I was truly alone." 

"But —" And d'Artagnan coughs again. "But that makes no sense!" 

"No, it does *not*. I've spent the past forty minutes searching for any sign while trying not to be obvious about doing just that — Aramis. Why are you looking at Porthos that way?" 

Shit, shit, *shit* — 

"Porthos? Do you know something about this?" 

"Uh — shit. Maybe." 

Athos raises an eyebrow. "Now would be a good time —" 

"Athos, what I know isn't..." Porthos shakes his head. "I mean, I can say, 'yeah, that sounds a lot like some of the shit my mum's friends would talk about before and after she died', but that still doesn't help *us* any, because my mum's friends were *witches*," Porthos says, lowering his own voice. 

Athos opens his mouth — closes it. "No." 

"Yes."

"I — there's no — those are lies the Church establishment came up with to punish the rebellious and —" 

"Athos. Mate. We um. When you saw your father's office —" 

"It wasn't —" 

"When you *saw* it. Did you also smell it? Hear sounds that would've been —"

"There were — older guns being fired. The sounds were unmistakable. It was daylight — *fuck*," Athos says, growling under his breath and pacing away a few steps before coming back.

d'Artagnan is blinking. 

Aramis is fingering his rosary. 

Porthos scrubs a hand over his face. "I can think of someone we can ask for help." 

They all look at him. 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "We don't even have to go to the Court for it. Yejide let me get her the fuck *out* of there."


	3. Basset.

Paris is Paris, which means that they hadn't gotten a mile away from the burnt-out tavern before they'd forcibly put an end to a brawl that was endangering an already-rickety tenement, before Kitos had mostly-accidentally beaten an attempted rapist to death — this is what gutters are *for* — and before Reynard had garrotted still another. 

Entirely on purpose. 

Normally, Treville would be able to enjoy this sort of thing — it tends to be what he *lives* for on a day-to-day basis — but — 

But. 

He has something else to live for, now. 

He had, specifically, *asked* for something else to live for. 

He had — 

("Mm. You love these men, Treville?" 

"I. I always have. From the very first —" 

"You love them even though you know full well they *can't* love you?" 

"It's not their fault. It's not — they aren't *made* that way, and I can't — I don't ever want to *resent* them —" 

"It *sounds* like you already do —" 

"No! *Please*!") 

And Ife had looked at him, long and hard. 

("Please. You — the others said you could help me. That you could help me *keep* my love for my brothers —" 

"Boy, you the only one who can do that." 

"I —" 

"But..." 

"*Please*."

"Shh, shh. I know your type. Your *kind*.") 

And that had been — he'd snorted bitterly. 

("Buggerers, Ife? We do tend to wind up in the *oddest* places —" 

"*Knights*, Treville. Different cultures have different names for people like you, people who live their lives *happier* on their knees with weapons strapped to their backs...") 

And Ife had laughed and touched his forehead. 

("Yes, it's what you want, isn't it? A life of honour? A life of service? A life of *purity* in at least *one* kind of way, because you think you're just too filthy in all the others?" 

"Don't —" 

"Shh. I see you, Treville. My name means 'love', and love is many things — including love of service. We need someone like you, my sisters and I. And you need us." 

"And... I'll be able to hold onto Reynard? To Kitos and Laurent?" 

"That's your look-out, boy. We won't take them from you. If you lose them? *You* will lose them.") 

And that...

Ah, fuck, it *hurts* that he's physically *incapable* of focusing on Reynard as he flirts and charms and plays the *harmless* inebriate to get them information — 

That he can barely even *glance* at Kitos swatting a particularly *stupid* footpad into an early retirement — 

It *hurts* that his nose, his *self* is focused entirely on getting closer, ever closer to the boy — 

He should be able to *enjoy* himself — 

His *loves* — 

But. 

It doesn't hurt when Reynard kisses an off-duty shopgirl in thanks — 

It doesn't hurt when Kitos smiles a promise to a teahouse girl that he'll never make to *Treville* — 

He can't *enjoy* either of those things right now, not wholly, but — 

But the trade was a good one. 

Even though it makes *both* Reynard and Kitos eye him strangely and more than a little darkly once they're alone again. 

Treville inhales and shakes himself. 

"Mon cher. Are you going to tell us why you do that now?" And Reynard's using the quiet voice, the musically-soft and *dangerous* voice that means — 

That means he'll be at Treville's throat, one way or another, if he *doesn't* get an answer that satisfies him *soon*. 

A quick glance at Kitos tells Treville that *he* won't be stopping Reynard unless and until it gets dire for both of them, and — right. 

Treville swallows and nods, lifting his nose — 

"When." 

"In — a moment. We're close to where we need to be," Treville says, and scans the neighbourhood — 

A large number of West African immigrants, judging by the handful of Yoruba dialects he can identify. 

The scents of the cooking have him looking for Amina even more — 

It would make *sense* for her to come to a place like this if there were trouble, for her to *disappear* into a place like this, with — 

But that's the question, isn't it. 

There's still no *feel* of Amina, and, now that he's close to the (his) boy — he *has* to be in the *same* neighbourhood — the feel of *him* is... different. 

But the three of them are getting very, very suspicious — if not actively hostile — looks, and Treville's pained frown isn't helping. He gestures them into yet another alley — 

"Why are we *here*?" And Reynard's voice is *hard*. 

"No cher? No ami? This must be —" 

"Do not *joke*, Treville," Reynard says, gripping Treville's shoulders and *shoving* him against the wall. "You haven't even been *listening* to the information Kitos and I have been picking up —" 

"I —" 

"You have been acting the *bloodhound*. What — what —" Reynard growls and paces away, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Kitos. *Tell* him." 

Treville frowns. "Tell me what?" 

"Brother..." Kitos shakes his head. "Everyone we've spoken to, drunk or sober, virginal or mad with the pox, says we're somehow twenty-five years further into the future than we should be."

Treville feels the blood drain from his face — 

Feels — 

He has to get to his *boy* — 

"Where are you *going*?"

"I — I..." And that is Reynard gripping his wrist — 

Reynard *staring* at him with a blend of woundedness and *suspicion* — 

No — 

*No* — 

But — "Reynard, Kitos, you don't — I'm *bound* to Amina's boy —" 

"Who is *obviously* still alive, and *obviously* safe, hey?" And Kitos is using his slow, low, and *rumbling* voice — 

"*We* are alive, mon frère, and always we are willing to follow your lead, but *our* safety is much less assured," Reynard says. 

"Yes, I know — but —" 

"*Brother*." And now Kitos is gripping his other shoulder — 

And there's no way out of that — 

No way without using the dog in his tunic, and he won't, he won't ever hurt his brothers, leave them *vulnerable* — 

Treville breathes — 

And slumps —

"*Bien*, now, perhaps, mon cher will *think* with us?" 

"Reynard..." 

Reynard wraps a long, strong arm around Treville's shoulders and pulls him close — 

Pulls him *away* from Kitos with ease and grace — 

"Mon cher, you will note my forbearance. The sheer number of questions I am not — yet — asking are teetering over us both like the towers of a vast *cathedral* —" 

Treville growls helplessly, showing his teeth — 

"No? You do not like churches so much? Is it because you traffic with witches and the Church was right about them all along?" 

"It's because I traffic with witches and the Church was bloody *wrong* about them all along." 

Reynard grins, bright and wide. "There is my grumpy brother. We will find your boy. We will make sure he is safe as safe can be —" 

"Please — please." 

Reynard searches him in the gloom — and nods. "And then? We will find a way to get back to where we belong —" 

"We. We're in the right neighbourhood for that. Too. I wanted to say." 

Reynard looks back over Treville's shoulder at Kitos. 

Treville can smell their doubt. He has been — 

Laurent would say that he hasn't been *correct*, and as much of a stick as Laurent *is* — 

He has a point. 

He — 

Treville steps away from Reynard and stands straight, opening the lower half of his tunic, and then his trousers and breeches — 

"Mon ami, you may wish to face the wall —" 

"No. I don't," Treville says, and shoves the trousers and breeches down. "You both need to see this." 

"See sodding —" 

"Mon Dieu." 

"What the fucking —" 

"I haven't wanted to cross myself this badly since the Mother Superior caught me with my nose up the skirts of one of her novices —" 

"— fuck, that's a dog cock." 

"Yes," Treville says, and lifts his tunic and shirt to make *sure* that his mates see —

"Is that *fur*?" 

"Kitos, are you more concerned about the fur than the cock?" 

"I'm bloody concerned about *both* —" 

"That is fair." 

"I sodding *thought* so —" 

"Fearless —" 

"Cher —" 

"Yes?" And Treville dresses himself again. 

"Mon *cher*. Mon *chien* —" 

"Reynard —"

Kitos *coughs* — and then blinks. "Oi. He's kind of a basset hound, eh? Low-slung and grumpy?" 

Reynard has the nerve to look *thoughtful* — 

"I'm not that *short*. It's just that you people are too bloody *tall* —" 

Kitos and Reynard *look* at him — 

Treville growls — 

Reynard turns to Kitos. "He is definitely very grumpy, our petit chien —" 

"For fuck's sake —" 

"He may need a treat, brother." 

"I know *just* the thing," Reynard says, yanking Treville close and whispering — loudly — in his ear: "You did not see him because you were too focused on sniffing out *your* boy —" 

"What —" 

"But there is a *lovely* boy, very dark, skin like the cacao drinks the explorers brought back for the King —"

"I'd rather not think of my lovers as *food*, Reynard —" 

"But you will want to eat this one *right* up," Reynard says, and licks his lips. "I promise. He is very sweet, very dutiful as he helps his family sell spicy meat-pies from their cart —" 

"Oi, I saw that one — his mouth was *amazing*." 

"See? Even Kitos noticed." 

And. 

Treville knows what his brothers want from him right now. He knows — 

The man he was just a *week* ago would have had his nose open for this boy — 

This *unseen* — 

The man he was just a week ago would have seen the boy, and bought a pie, and have already checked the lay of the land in terms of the likelihood of getting the boy *away* from his loving and hard-working family for an hour or two on his knees. 

Or his hands and knees. 

Or both. 

Kitos rumbles a laugh and claps him on the shoulder — "*Now* he's thinking about it —" 

"Mais oui, as well he *should*. We will steal this lovely boy for you, and — hm." 

"'Hm'? What 'hm'?" 

Reynard looks at Kitos. 

Kitos blinks. 

They *both* look at Treville's crotch. 

Treville sighs. "Right. Here's what's going to happen, gentlemen —" 

"You take that back!" And Kitos scowls at him. 

Reynard grins around the tip of his pink tongue — 

And Treville sighs just a little bit harder. "Did you, or did you *not* want me to *think* with you?" 

"Mostly we wanted you to talk to us." 

"Ah, oui, mon ami. The grunting and growling, the periodic flashes from your glowing eyes —" 

"It was getting a little disturbing. Also — do you have a tail?" 

Reynard and Treville stare at Kitos. 

"Fucking *what*? It's not like he showed us his sodding *backside*." 

"He's wearing *breeches*, Kitos." 

"It could be a *little* —" 

"One, I do not have a tail." 

"Right, thanks." 

"Two, I'm sorry for being an uncommunicative bastard —" 

"We forgive you — we do, right, Reynard?"

"Yes, we do." 

"Right, you're forgiven —" 

"But if you do any more weird magic *shit* without telling us about it *first*?" 

Treville winces. "Yes?" 

Kitos looks *deeply* interested — 

And Reynard nods and crosses his long arms over his rangy chest. "I will *immediately* tell Laurent that you were just being *shy* when you told him that you were incapable of viewing women as romantically as you view men and boys —" 

"I — Reynard —" 

"That you think his beloved Marie-Angelique *is* the most beautiful of women —" 

"Don't —" 

"That you wish you could spend hours and hours and *hours* in her company, perhaps while she *embroiders* —" 

"Oh my fucking —" 

"You know, mates. Laurent likes that embroidery stuff, too," Kitos says, and smiles evilly. "He got to nattering about how *soothing* it was the last time we had the watch —" 

"Perfection! Our Laurent will *teach* you how to embroider something *dripping* with tea roses and sentiment for Marie-Angelique —" 

Kitos booms a laugh. "And then he'll send our basset hound out there to her, hat over his heart —" 

"Heart in his *eyes* —" 

"And doggy-prick detaching itself and running off down the lane after the nice, safe, utterly uncultured stableboys," Kitos says, laughing more. 

Reynard snickers and grins, eyes flashing sharp as *blades* — 

And Treville... can't even pretend not to be amused. "I'll *behave*." 

"You sodding won't!" 

Well... "No, I sodding won't. I... but..." 

"'But', cher?" 

Treville smiles ruefully, and thinks of how it had felt to stand up changed after the rituals, how his whole body had felt different, not just his tackle, his whole *self* — 

And how he'd looked across the circle at his Amina-love...

And felt different in *those* ways, too. 

Treville looks down.

He can *feel* his brothers frowning at him — 

He can't make them wait, and he can't make them bloody *guess*. "I'm — there's another difference — "

"Oh, bloody buggering fuck, Fearless, what *now*?" 

Reynard... Reynard is stiff. Silent. *Waiting*. 

Treville looks up, and smiles ruefully. "Women, lads. They... I..." He shakes his head. "I'm not quite so *hopeless* a buggerer anymore," he says, and thinks of the *dreams* he's been having about Amina, the way he wakes from them sweating and aching and *needing* — 

Needing to be *closer* — 

And closer than that. 

"Bloody — they changed your whole..." And Kitos trails off and stares. 

Reynard just *flushes* and stares. 

"They — they made me her knight. Hers and the babe's. They had to augment my power to do that, and to do *that*... they *merged* me with... something like a bloody dog. And, as near as I can tell, dogs are a lot less... discriminating." Treville shakes himself. "It doesn't feel... no. It *does* feel different. 

"It just also feels like something some part of me was waiting —" 

And Reynard moves for him, *grips* him by the face — 

"Reynard —" 

"You won't — you won't ever behave. You won't *ever*." 

Well... Treville smiles ruefully. "Probably not, no. But I'll *think* about behaving —" 

"Briefly, as you throw yourself into *madness*," Reynard says, and kisses Treville's cheek like a growl, a punch, a — kiss.

Treville closes his eyes for it — 

And Reynard presses his lips to Treville's ear. "We are brothers, are we not? We made that promise to each other long before we ever shed *blood* for each other —" 

"Reynard —" 

"Do not ever make me think you've forgotten what the promise means again. Please." 

Treville *grunts* — and opens his eyes. "Reynard..." 

"Our Kitos is pretending he can't hear every word of this, because he thinks I have more right to feel hurt right now than he does. But it is *not* true. Do you understand?" 

I did it for us, Treville doesn't say. 

I did it for *all* of us, he can't ever, ever say. 

"Aye," is what he *does* say, and he turns and kisses Reynard's cheek right back. "Brother. *Brothers*. I do have a plan." 

"Ah, so you *will* be our Laurent," Reynard says, and his eyes are hectic and wild, and they're demanding an end to *this* part of the conversation. 

And pleading for it, too. 

So Treville yanks on Reynard's ponytail, hard enough to make him stumble and snicker — 

"I don't know, brother," Kitos says, as he steadies Reynard. "Laurent would've gone straight for the Disapproving Look." 

"C'est vrai, c'est — what is the plan? Other than one, find your boy?" 

"Two, gently interrogate him about — about strange happenings. I can't help but feel like he might know *something*, especially since he's getting closer and closer to where *we* are —" 

"Ah, oui?" 

"*Yes*. And where we are, despite being *mostly* surrounded by West African immigrants, is something of a nexus for witches from any number of cultural backgrounds — look, if you're going to feel the need to cross yourselves, try to get it out of your system *before* we're talking to the actual witches." 

Kitos looks a little green. 

Reynard looks a little *peevish* —

"Oh — what *is* it, Reynard?" 

"When were you going to *tell* me that you weren't a Catholic?" 

Treville stares at Reynard. 

"I feel that you have been taking our brotherhood for granted —" 

"Reynard. And Kitos." 

"*What*?" 

"Yeah, mate?" Kitos is cleaning his fingernails with his dagger — 

"I don't believe in any gods. That doesn't mean they don't exist." 

"Oh. Shit." 

"You — fuck." 

"So, as I was saying, we find my boy, we talk to him, we talk to whatever witches he knows — and he's bound to know *some*; Amina wouldn't have it any other way — and we show some bloody *respect* —" 

"Uh... brother." 

"Kitos. What is it?" 

"Are *you* a witch now? A... dog-witch? Does that even *exist*?" 

Reynard gives him that pointed, I'm-waiting-for-you-to-say-something-that-will-prove-that-you've-fucked-up-yet-again look. 

And Treville — sighs. "Yes. I'm a witch. A... dog-witch." 

Reynard opens his mouth — 

"But I bloody *wasn't* until — until the rest of this." 

Kitos raises his thick, bristling eyebrows. 

"And I was — sodding wrong not to talk to you both about it. First," Treville says, and glares, and paces, and —

Prowls — 

Noses up — 

"You think that's good enough, Reynard?" 

"Yes, Kitos, it is, because our close-mouthed brother has *officially* been too long off the hunt," Reynard says, and that — 

What? "What —" 

"Go," Reynard says. 

"I — are we — I'm sorry —" 

"*Go*, cher. Your eyes are starting to flare in the *wrong* ways." 

"It... it. He's close to danger. I..." Treville turns and jogs out of the alley, following the — 

It's not a scent. 

It's *close* to a taste. Like the memory of the taste of Amina's milk, and the sense of *wrong* he'd felt taking that even as it made him — 

This. 

Closer to this. 

He'd needed blood, too, spend and piss and the focus of the three witches, the sisters who had chosen each other, made each other strong with love and desire and desire for Amina, their little one, and the babe they all feared for. 

None of them could say *why* they feared for him so strongly, beyond telling Treville that it was the sort of fear it paid to listen to. 

The fear is part of the taste, acrid and sharp. He is, he knows, still too far away to *help* with whatever danger his boy is close to, and that's wrong. That's — 

He's never supposed to — 

The boy is supposed to be with his *mother* — 

But. 

It's been twenty-five years. 

Amina... 

*His* sister, *his* friend, *his* love that had never brought pain, as opposed to happiness and warmth, good food, comfort, peace and quiet as she taught him the proper ways to scrub pots and weave rugs and he taught her the proper ways to oil swords and stab people with *knives* so that they didn't get up again. 

She taught him to dance; he taught her to dance other ways. 

She taught him her languages; he taught her his. 

She — 

No words. 

No words. 

It's *probable* that she's — she's *dead*. That even if nothing terrible had happened to her, even if she had prospered with her son — away from that *arse* of a Belgard — she had still *died*. 

Plague. 

A broken bone set ill. 

Another pregnancy from some other man who didn't deserve her, and this one went badly. 

*Amina* — 

"Mon frere, you are whining, what is *wrong*?" 

Shit — "Reynard, I — I'm grieving." 

"What? Is your boy —" 

"No, I. I'm dealing — poorly — with the fact that I can't feel Amina." 

Reynard winces — 

Kitos cups the back of Treville's neck — 

They're taking up *massive* amounts of *space* — but. 

With one preternaturally beautiful bookend and one preternaturally *gigantic* bookend, perhaps no one will pay attention to the *book*. 

The sniffing, growling, whining, *hunting* — 

But. 

Treville stops and *looks* — 

"The hostler, mate?"

"My boy's possessions are there. Some of them dearly-loved." He wants to touch. He wants to sniff and lick and — 

No, no — 

"And where is the boy?" Reynard is doing a good job of scanning the street — the crowd — without looking like he's doing anything more than looking for someone to sell him a pastry, or perhaps a tumble in an alley. 

"Yeah, and where's the danger? They have to be close, right?" 

Treville wants to — heel. 

He wants to sit by his boy's horse, which he knows is healthy, and well-cared-for, and male, and a bit on the frisky side, and — 

But that's not what he has to do. 

That's not what he's here for. "There," Treville says, and nods toward a better-maintained tenement than even most of the neat buildings in this neighbourhood. There's no trash in front of it, and there is not one single whiff of piss coming from the alleys to either side of it, animal or human. 

Treville can smell the plants in the *garden* that he can't actually *see* from here, and he can smell how healthy they are, and. 

He can taste the opening *eye* of the witch inside. 

He can taste her *power*, which is not so different from the power that was given to him — 

And, most importantly, he can taste her welcome. 

"Come on," he says, and leads the others across the street. 

"Mon cher, were you communicating...?" 

"Yes. The witch who lives in that building has extended a tentative — *tentative* — welcome to us." 

"And your boy is in there? That was the danger you felt?"

Treville nods. "He's safe now. The witch — she didn't offer her name to me, yet — didn't know why the... energies, for lack of a better word, around him were flaring and sparking so loudly and unpredictably. Now she does. To a certain extent." 

Kitos grunts and turns to watch their backs. "That makes a *kind* of sense, I suppose." 

"No, it doesn't," Reynard says. 

"No, it bloody doesn't," Kitos says. 

Treville can feel them giving him *pointed* looks — "I'll explain later." 

"*Will* you?" 

Heh. "Probably not," Treville says, and jogs up the steps, pushes open the door — 

Rumbles *helplessly* — 

That scent — 

"That *scent*!"

"You're an arse, mate, but steady, steady now," Kitos says, and tugs Treville back against him — 

And Reynard cups his shoulder and studies the gloom and closed doors — 

Treville sniffs and whuffs and sniffs and *whuffs* — 

Reynard sucks his teeth. "*I* want to smell this smell." 

"Leather. Steel. Gunpowder —" 

"That is *us* —" 

"And..." 

"Yes?" 

"My boy," Treville says, and swallows, and growls at himself, because he'd honestly thought he'd have more words, better *words*, but — 

But he's moving for the last door on the right, where there are scents of spices soaking in oils, scents designed to *mask* the scents of blood-magic from people just a bit less sensitive than he is — 

His boy can't smell it. 

His boy — 

His *boy*, and Treville knows that Kitos and Reynard are still with him, that they'll always — 

And then the door starts to open — 

"Right, but will someone tell me *why* I'm opening the door right — what the merry *fuck* is *this* — *Treville*?"

His boy...

"What — wait — *shit*. You're — you're *young*!" 

His boy is beautiful. 

"Shit, Fearless. *This* is who you're supposed to be protecting?" Kitos snorts. "He looks like he can throw you through the fucking wall." 

"Who — what — fuck. You're all wearing the old-fashioned uniforms. And you're — right, I —" His boy shakes himself — 

Treville doesn't *pounce* — 

— and then his boy takes a deep breath, blinks, and smiles wryly. "Porthos du Vallon, of the King's Musketeers, at your service," he says, flourishing perfectly and making a casual leg. "Who the bloody hell — I mean. Except for you." And his boy — *Porthos*, Amina had even *named* him like one of them! — turns back to *him*. "Treville... shit. Is that even what you *go* by at that age? This age. How old *are* you?" 

"Twenty-three," Treville says, more than a little surprised that he can get the words *out* — "I. I go by Treville, yes." 

"Twenty — uh. I'm *twenty-five*. You're — *fuck*." 

"And what are you all still doing out there? Bring those boys *in*, Porthos," says the woman — the witch. 

Porthos blinks. "Right — right. Sorry, Yejide," he calls back over his shoulder, and then focuses on Kitos and Reynard. "Are you two uh. Well, obviously you're Musketeers —" 

"Kitos," he booms, grinning and swallowing Porthos into a bear-hug. "Do all those studs on your neck turn away sword-blows, or do they just *get* you blown, eh?" 

Porthos *snorts* — 

"I am Reynard," he says, when Kitos lets him go. There's something cautious in his tone, but when Treville looks a question at him — 

Reynard just looks *another* question right back. 

Treville isn't sure what it is. 

They walk into the witch's rooms, and — 

And they make Treville miss Ife like a limb, even though she was far more Amina's friend than his. 

The cooking smells are right, the colorful patterns on the scarves and blankets are right, the rich and settled *power* thrumming through the whole overfull *place* is right, but — 

But. 

Ife's power was aligned, for better or for worse, with the earth. With animals of all sorts — humans and otherwise — and animal sensibilities. 

Long before she and her sisters had *changed* Treville, Treville had felt *comfortable* with her, and her legion of wandering strays — human and otherwise — who would stop in for a meal and/or healing and to give her the news of this or that community before wandering off again.

*Ife's* home was full all the time, and the cooking scents covered the scents of, well, *animals*. 

This... 

This place is empty when there aren't one average-sized and six large men in it. 

This place has room for patterns to be drawn on the walls and floor.

Patterns in blood.

Patterns in pain. 

This Yejide deals in darkness, if not necessarily evil, and while Ife had explained — more than once — the place such people have in the world — in the universe — it's not something Treville can be entirely comfortable with. 

He's... pacing. 

He's pacing too much. 

He's making too much of an effort to get *between* Yejide and his — Porthos. 

He's being too — 

"You will forgive our Treville," Reynard says, smooth and easy and preparing to lie even as Kitos wraps *Treville* in a bear-hug, "the past several hours have left him... agitated." 

The other men — the other *Musketeers*, and at first glance they're all at *least* their own ages, and they all look at *least* as capable of handling themselves in a scrap, and of — 

Protecting his boy?

Can they?

Treville growls, flat and threatening and not in the *least* deniable, in *part* to see — 

The new Musketeers immediately reach for their pistols — 

The prettiest one also reaches for a dagger and begins to open up room for himself to throw it — 

And Reynard's eyes flash as he snarls and drops his hands to the grips of his two pistols, immediately ready to defend them. "Ah, oui? I will murder every one of you children and piss on your corpses!" 

And *Kitos*, slow-and-so-very-easy-to-*discount* Kitos, levels the pistol he'd slipped from Treville's belt at Yejide's eye. "Methinks you ought to calm this soirée down, mum." 

Yejide just smiles, strong and yellowing predator-teeth in her dark, dark face. 

"What the sodding fuck — why do we need to be calm — what just —" *Porthos* growls and glares — at the pale one with the kerchief round his throat. 

The pale one raises an eyebrow. 

"Sodding — *Athos*. Give the fucking —" 

The pale one — *Athos* — pointedly relaxes himself and folds his hands behind his back. "Everyone. Stand *down*." 

The pretty one hisses between his teeth and looks *distinctly* mutinous — 

The *youngest* one — if he can grow a proper beard, Treville *does* have a bloody tail — looks like he's inclined to follow the pretty one's *lead* — 

And Reynard blows the pretty one a kiss. "Go on, sweet boy. Give me an excuse to redecorate the witch-woman's rooms." 

The pretty one *blazes* behind his yellow-brown eyes, showing all of his sharpest teeth — "Perhaps you will help good Yejide with her blood-spells, mm? You seem like a generous old man." 

Kitos stiffens behind Treville — 

Treville watches Reynard raise an eyebrow — "You fight like an alley cat, little boy. Do you fuck like one, too?" 

The pretty one narrows his eyes. "I'm afraid I'm not *familiar* with the romantic habits of —" 

"I will make it *easy*, boy: Do you yowl for every cock that comes your *way*?" 

"*Reynard*," Treville says, *as* Porthos says — 

"Aramis, I know he bloody deserves it, but if you throw that dagger, I'll be *really* hacked-off. At least briefly." And then Porthos glares at Reynard — 

Who is wincing and snarling and — gripping Treville's shirt through his open tunic.

And digging in against his own closed eyes with the fingers of his other hand, pistol pressed to his forehead. 

Treville knows exactly how many apologies are in that, but — they don't. 

He shrugs off Kitos's touch lightly and, very deliberately, presses his mouth to his Reynard's, his *brother's* ear. "You just made yourself look very bad in front of people we need to —"

Reynard kisses him. 

On the *mouth*. 

That — 

And then he turns, holsters his pistols, doffs his *hat* to the — to *Aramis*, which is a damned ridiculous name for a soldier unless he *is* an alley-cat of *one* kind or another — 

Bows — 

"You have my apologies. I felt I was being threatened. I am not polite when this happens, as my brothers can tell you in lurid, gory detail." 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. "And you are *quite* certain that the lurid, gory detail would not be appropriate for a description of your sex life...?" 

"I am Reynard. The cuddly one who still very much wants to shoot the witch-woman is Kitos. You, I now know, are... Aramis." Reynard stands straight, adjusts his hat, and smiles wryly. "You are a lover, no...?" 

Aramis lifts his chin. "Among many other things." 

"And I would do well to remember this. Bien. I will consider myself chastened. Now. Who will introduce us to your fellows? Perhaps first to the baby-faced one who is *still* holding his pistol...?" 

"Oh — sodding *hell*, d'Artagnan!" Porthos sounds ready to smack sense into him, which is a little guilt-inducing, considering the fact that Treville had started this —

"I don't trust them!" 

Kitos booms laughter. "I like that one. He's smart. Pretty, too, eh, Basset?" 

Basset — he already misses 'Fearless'. But *both* Basset and Fearless have a certain image to live up to. Treville rolls his eyes and elbows Kitos in the gut. "You *know* I like them older than that or *younger* than that, you giant *berk*."

Kitos *wheezes* laughter — 

And the four *new* Musketeers — though the d'Artagnan boy lacks his brassard — stare at Treville in horror, just like *he's* the one who's been aiming guns and knives and — 

"*What*?" 

His boy blinks first, coughing and — "Uh..." But he doesn't seem to have anything to come after that. 

And the others are still staring. 

Yejide has crossed her legs and is sipping some spicy-smelling brew that seems like what would happen if tea had *pepper* in it. 

And the others are still — 

"For fuck's sake, *what* —" 

Kitos grunts. "Maybe Laurent cracked down on all the buggery and drunkenness after he's Captain for a while?" 

Reynard snorts. "He never would! He loves it!"

*Athos* starts choking for some damned reason — 

Aramis whacks him on the back — 

And — hm. Treville turns to Porthos. "Laurent *is* Captain, right? We all missed riding with him, but he was made for that job." 

"Uh... when you say *Laurent*..." 

"The bloody Comte de la Fère!" 

Porthos points to Athos — "That's — that was his father." 

*Kitos* coughs — 

And Reynard and Treville wince. "He's... he passed away?" 

*Porthos* winces. "He... about six years ago now, sir — uh. Treville." 

"Did you just call me —" 

"No! Uh." And then Porthos very *obviously* starts looking around for help — 

And Aramis rests one arm on Porthos's shoulder and smiles *meanly* down at Treville. "*You* are *our* Captain. *Sir*." 

For a moment, the only sound is Yejide sipping her tea. 

And then... 

Then Kitos laughs so hard his entire *body* quakes — 

And Treville has to *catch* his pistol to keep it from hitting the floor — 

And Reynard is snickering and wheezing like a boy who just saw his first naked cunny and it's either laugh or spend all over his breeches.

Wonderful. 

d'Artagnan finally, *finally* puts his pistol away. "I'm definitely seeing how you're the most *mature* choice of your generation, sir." 

That — no. 

This is *absolutely* fucking something to be nipped in the fucking *bud*, and — 

"Right, look — d'Artagnan?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Every *single* time *any* of you call me sodding *sir*, I'm going to say something obscene," Treville says. 

"Oh — shit —" 

"As an example," he says, and turns to Aramis. "You're pretty enough to sell your arse to *fine* ladies for a living, Aramis. Do you just prefer killing?" 

Aramis grins *delightedly*. "I try not to limit myself." 

"Mm. Noted," Treville says, and turns back to d'Artagnan — 

"Oh, God." 

"How old are you?" 

"N-nineteen —" 

"You stammer too much for a nineteen-year-old, but then, I can tell by your voice that you're a country boy. Did you learn your fucking technique from horses or goats?" 

"*Fuck* — you —" 

Reynard *cackles* — "It is your *Porthos's* turn, frère chien." 

His — 

"*His*?" 

And they're looking at him, they're *all* looking at him, and that means he has to make this good, has to make this performance *right* — 

But. 

Porthos is tall, and strong, and so much more perfect than anything that pathetic Belgard could've had a hand in creating. 

He's beautiful. 

He's brown and massive and — 

And they're all looking at him, and Porthos, at least, can see just a little too much in Treville's eyes. 

Treville can't — 

Can't. 

"Porthos, mm?"

"That's right..." And Porthos lifts his chin. 

And Treville pulls on a grin and lifts his own. "When you're wrestling the more recalcitrant horses into place for young d'Artagnan to work his romantic wiles on —" 

"Fucking *hell* —" 

"— do you ever get lonely?" 

And that was... a weak finish.

A weak and *telling* finish — 

"Not as lonely as you do, I'd wager, mate," Porthos says, looking him up and down — 

Measuring him — 

Finding him *wanting* as he turns *away*. 

And Treville is just — going to have to take that for now.


	4. Well, these things could seem disturbing to some people, but...

Porthos would be lying — badly and *baldly* — if he ever said that he hadn't spent long hours wondering just what the regiment was like in the old days. 

What, specifically, *Treville* was like. 

It's just that now he has an answer, and... 

And he doesn't much like it. 

This Treville — 

This *twenty-three year old* Treville with all his hair and barely any visible scars and — 

And friends. 

The big one — Kitos — maybe wouldn't be so bad if you got him alone — Porthos trusts his judgment enough for that, whether or not he should — but the others...

Reynard and *Treville* — 

Right now, Reynard has yanked the tie out of his long, mostly straight hair so that it will fall in a way that hides most of his and Treville's faces. 

They're telling secrets over there, and the sound isn't carrying well enough — 

Not even with *his* brothers all staying just as quiet as they can and *trying* to hear — 

And Kitos laughs like an earthquake in progress, or maybe just like boulders rolling down a mountain. "You'll not be getting their secrets that way, friends," he says, and crosses his arms over his belly. "The two of them perfected that little trick years ago." And he nods to Porthos. "They're not actually making any sounds, y'see." 

"Uh. Right, so I'm *not* going to deny that I was trying to eavesdrop —" 

"*Good*!" 

"But —" 

"They are... reading each other's lips?" And Athos raises an eyebrow under his fringe. 

"Just so, Athos. Say, did Laurent let you get away with wearing your hair like that?" 

Athos's jaw drops slightly — he closes his mouth. "No. No, he — that's not relevant —" 

Kitos wags a massive, sausage-like finger at Athos. "Your father was very particular about neatness and discipline, y'know." 

"I."

"Didn't you people *just* say that Athos's father was particular about buggery and *drunkenness*?" And d'Artagnan doesn't *quite* look or sound like he's ready to start another damned *fight* — 

And Athos looks like someone just hit him with a plank — again — 

Kitos laughs again. "He is *particular* about discipline when discipline is *required*. And he's even more particular about his boys — his little brothers — having a grand old time of it when *that's* required." 

Well, now Athos looks like someone hit him with a *padded* plank. Porthos can't decide if that's an improvement or not. 

"Hm. I wonder," Kitos says, and combs through his massive — and neat — beard with his fingers. 

Aramis smiles wryly and nods at Kitos. "I fear the next words to come from your mouth, Kitos." 

Another earthquake of a laugh — and Kitos grins at Athos, who is looking distinctly green. "We got to see your mum not too long ago, my friend." 

"Oh — God." 

"She had a right glow to her —" 

Aramis *coughs* — 

"Was that you, d'you think?" 

"I could still shoot him, Athos," d'Artagnan says. "I could still shoot *all* of them —" 

"That," Yejide says, and sets her empty mug down, "would be ill-advised. To say the least." And then she crosses her legs. 

Reynard looks Yejide over measuringly, and seems *about* to say something — 

Porthos is really *hoping* he does — 

But Treville stops him with an obviously hard hand on his arm. 

Reynard raises an eyebrow and subsides. 

"I — Madame Yejide —" 

"Yejide is good enough, d'Artagnan. I'm no man's wife, and I don't much care for how you Frenchmen choose to 'respect' your women." 

d'Artagnan blinks — 

Swallows — 

"Yes — Yejide. I apologize." 

Yejide nods once. "Apology accepted. Ask your question." 

"Why would it be a bad idea — I mean, obviously we have to somehow get these people back where they belong, but is there any reason in particular why they need to be protected?" 

"Because, if not, you've got a bridge you'd like to show us the view from?" And Treville is giving d'Artagnan an admiring smile —

It makes Porthos want to grab d'Artagnan and pull him closer to *their* side of the room — 

That's the smile *Porthos* gives d'Artagnan — 

"I've got a *lot* of things I'd like to show you," d'Artagnan says, growling under his breath — 

And Reynard sucks his teeth. "He already *said*, you are too *old*." 

"Or too young," Kitos says. "Can't discount that." 

"I had... almost... blocked that out," Athos says, and now he's got that hunted look he gets when he's *exactly* too sober. 

"Steady on, mate. There's a *raft* of bottles with our names on 'em once we get this sorted." 

Athos nods slowly — 

"Oi! He's a drinker? Laurent would be *heartbroken*, but I have to say I'm a bit relieved," Kitos says. 

Athos walks over to the wall and beats his head against it. 

Five — eight times. 

Porthos winces. 

d'Artagnan looks bloody horrified. 

Aramis bites his *lip* — 

And Treville clears his throat. It comes out sounding like a dog with a cough, for some damned reason — 

And Kitos and Reynard are both giving Treville *looks* — 

But Treville just looks at Yejide. "This is obviously not the natural order of things, Yejide —" 

"Is it, Treville? Obvious, I mean," she says, and tilts her head to the side. The red, gold, brown, and black scarf wrapped tightly around her hair doesn't slip even a little. "Your power is obvious to me, and, even though you're new to it, it *is* yours." 

Power? *What*? 

"Do you feel strange? Out of sorts? Do you feel out of step with the rhythms of this plane? Do you feel out of *place*?" 

Treville frowns. "I — no. I don't. I had to..." But he doesn't finish the thought. 

Aramis shares a look with Porthos — 

Kitos and Reynard move to bracket Treville — 

And Athos inhales sharply. "You had to *what*, Treville." 

Silence. 

Silence — 

And then Treville growls a laugh — at Yejide. "When you choose power, you choose everything that goes along with it. Right?" 

Yejide inclines her head. And smiles. 

Treville nods and reaches up, pushing Reynard and Kitos back and looking around at all of them. "I'm bound to Porthos." 

Porthos coughs —

Aramis *grips* his shoulder — 

"What the hell does *that* mean?" d'Artagnan, bless him, is already reaching for his pistol again. 

Athos is just watching this all *happen* and one day, soon, Porthos is going to take the man aside and *ask* him if it's his intention that they turn d'Artagnan into their personal attack dog, or if it's just convenient that it's working out that way. 

For now — 

"Bound how," Porthos says, low and calm, because he knows a little something — a *few* little somethings — about what that word might *mean*, and you don't want to make assumptions — 

You never want to make *assumptions* — 

"Amina is my closest friend, other than these two and Laurent," Treville says, also low, also — 

But. 

But no one has said Porthos's mother's name in so bloody *long* — 

No one — 

Treville looks *hurt*, looks — 

He's coming *closer* — 

"Stop — bloody *stop*," Porthos says, panting and shaking and —

Treville makes a low, animal sound. "What. What happened to her? Who *hurt* her?" 

What — "What are you talking about? Where the sodding hell *were* —" Porthos growls and shakes his head — 

"I don't understand, I don't — Amina, her friends, her witch-friends, they bound me to you, so that I would always be able to find you, and watch over you, and *protect* —" 

Porthos snorts. "Well, *that's* bloody rich! You —" 

Yejide clears her throat, and it feels as loud as a thunderclap.. 

Every last one of them stiffens and stops and *turns* —

Porthos can *see* that Treville's hackles are up, that there's something — 

Something bloody *different* — 

"There are things blood-witches can do that other witches can't," Yejide says, and taps her empty mug with one long, sharp fingernail. "You know this in your bones, don't you, Treville?" 

"I — yes. But —" 

"But here is a specific thing a blood-witch — like me — could have done for your Amina and your Porthos —" 

"I'm not sodding *his* —" 

"Be *quiet*, boy!"

Porthos rears *back*, blood heating in his body, heating and heating and *hurting* him from the inside out — "Yejide, I'm *sorry* —" 

"Are you?" 

Treville snarls and *grips* Porthos — 

*Yips* in obvious *pain* — 

And then...

*Porthos's* pain isn't there anymore. 

Porthos's blood feels *normal* again as he slumps back against the wall and *reels* —

And Treville is gasping and staggering, sweating and red and tearing copiously, clawing at his tunic — 

Reynard *yanks* him away from Porthos — "Cher, mon cher, tell me what you need, what is wrong, tell me what you *need* —" 

"The — the *dog* — I." And they fall to their knees together —

"What? Cher, non, non, s'il te plait, don't do this, please tell me —" 

"The *dog* in my — my breast... pocket —" 

"Ah, oui? Bien," Reynard says, and lays Treville down on the floor, ripping open his tunic and pulling out — a little wooden jackal-looking dog. "What —" 

"My hands, put it —" 

Reynard closes Treville's hands around the dog — 

Gasps — 

"So — so *hot* —" 

And then Treville sighs and shivers and — laughs, tired and low and half-growled and obviously recovered. 

Reynard strokes his hair and studies his face — 

"Just... give me one. Moment," Treville says. 

Porthos looks to Yejide — somehow, her mug is full again, and she's drinking. 

Kitos, Athos, d'Artagnan, *and* Aramis are *all* aiming pistols at her. 

And that... 

Despite everything, that has to stop. 

Porthos uses the stand-down gesture for Athos — 

Athos raises an eyebrow *hard* — but gives the order. 

"Thanks, mate," Porthos says, and shakes his head. "You needed to illustrate a point, Yejide?" 

"More than one," she says, and sips. 

"One, Treville is acutely aware when I'm suffering. Two, Treville *has* to do what he can to fix that, even if it fucks *him* up. Three... what?" 

Yejide looks at him like — 

"You are thinking of illustrating another point," Aramis says. "I am thinking of murdering everyone and everything you have ever loved, in no particular order, with no particular time-frame."

"Right, well, Treville's randy," Kitos says, and picks Treville up off the floor —

"I'm actually —" 

"Randy?"

Treville sighs and snorts and dusts himself off. "*Thank* you, Kitos," he says, and turns to Yejide. "I *wasn't* only taught how to act defensively, Yejide." 

"I know —" 

"And *I* know that you were — that you were trying to explain to Porthos that whatever fuck-awful thing happened to him and Amina was something I *couldn't* do anything about, somehow, even after all this *time*, but here's something I learned from the witches I spent the most time with — you don't *always* have to talk with your bloody *fists*." 

Yejide narrows her eyes — 

Porthos looks back and forth between them — 

"Ife... should have called me," Yejide says, and growling low and dark and — 

And, for just a moment, the steaming liquid in her mug isn't *anything* but blood, old and powerful and *alive*. 

It — 

Porthos frowns. "Who's Ife?" 

Yejide points to Treville. "The witch who, with her... the word you boys would use, I believe, is 'coven' — bound Treville to you, Porthos. After it all went to *shit*, after your blood-father tried to have you and your mama killed — be *quiet*!" 

Porthos pants — 

Treville *snarls* — 

Treville can't seem to *stop* snarling, and that — 

Porthos squeezes Aramis's hip hard and then walks over to just — 

Just squeeze Treville's shoulder. 

Just — that. 

And just that is enough to make Treville stand straight and blink — 

And blink up at *him* just like he has any goddamned answers. 

Porthos swallows and shakes his head —

And Treville inhales sharply and nods like a salute. "I'm — I'm all right, Porthos."

"No, you're not, and neither am I. Stop bloody pretending."

Kitos thunders laughter behind them — "He's a good one! You should definitely adopt him when we get home!" 

It's funny how sometimes you can *hear* the planks smacking everyone upside the head, even when you can't see them. 

"I... uh." And Treville blushes and shakes himself and blushes *harder* — 

Blushes like a *boy* — 

It's incredibly tempting to just — 

Just sodding *touch* — 

And Aramis clears his throat. "Yejide... please tell us more about what happened." 

She looks them all over with wry and *dark* amusement. "I can only tell you what Ife told me, which is what Treville — the *older* Treville — told her, from what he pieced together *after* the fact." 

Porthos nods. "That — that's more than I have. I won't ask you why you didn't tell me before —" 

"Because we were protecting you, boy. Plain and simple," Yejide says, unapologetic and stark. "But: Belgard plucked your mama off the street one day. Said he wanted her, so he had her. And then he kept having her. He wasn't brutal. He wasn't *ugly* or *nasty*. So, Ife and her sisters didn't think much of it — especially since Amina asked them not to intervene. Amina thought Belgard would set her up nicely once he got tired of her, and it certainly looked like that was how it was going to work out." And Yejide looks at Treville. 

Treville nods. "Amina is due to give birth within the next handful of weeks. We all assumed he would pick out some suitably tasteful — but not *too* tasteful — gift for the boy, for *Porthos*, and then set her aside." 

"Who — who's bloody *we*?" 

Treville opens his mouth — 

"Understand, please, I have never been as close to your mother as Treville," Reynard says — 

"And neither have I been," Kitos says — 

"But all three of us visit with her, from time to time. She takes care of our Treville," Reynard says, and smiles wryly down at him. "This makes her the most valuable of women, non? This also makes her the most *rare* of women, because our Treville, you may have noticed, has not always been so partial to the fairer sex." 

"We just thought he was really *busy*," d'Artagnan says. 

Reynard and Kitos look at d'Artagnan. 

Kitos turns to Athos. "Mate, you gotta take *care* of the farmboys. They're ignorant, but if you train them up right they can really make something of themselves —" 

"Oh, sod *off* —" 

Aramis *coughs*. "I believe what our beloved d'Artagnan is *trying* to say... is that Treville has been, to us, a commanding officer and a father figure —" 

Treville looks bloody *queasy* —

"— and so we have singularly failed to consider who he may or may not have been fucking." 

"Well," Porthos says —

And then everybody looks at him. 

Just — "Right, look, a man gets *curious* of an evening!" 

Athos leans against a wall with *both* eyebrows up. 

"No, I'm not bloody elaborating on that! Sodding *Reynard* is doing the sodding elaborating right now!" 

Reynard coughs into his surprisingly big — he *carries* himself like an average-sized man, but he's actually nearly as tall as Porthos — fist and licks his lips. "As I was saying. Amina is not our *close* friend, but she *is* our friend. More to the point, *Laurent* is our friend, our brother, and the leader of our... mon chien, have you started thinking of it as a pack?" 

What the — 

But Treville sighs, rolls his eyes, and growls. "*Shut* it, Reynard. And yes." 

"Ah, bien," Reynard says, and turns back to *him*. "Laurent is our *older* brother — and le comte, oui? He knows the Belgard family, though not *very* well. Still —" 

"He would've told us if they were like to set killers after someone," Kitos says. 

Reynard nods. "It is very confusing. Amina's lover is weak, small, ultimately *pathetic*, but..." 

"None of us would've pegged him for the *type* to set an amateur assassin after his mistress and their baby just to protect his inheritance when one, the whole peerage knew about the affair anyway, and two, the mistress in question didn't want anything to do with him in the first place.." 

"If we *had* had any idea," Treville says, and looks only at Yejide, "we would've ripped his bollocks off for *touching* her in the *first* place." 

"And Laurent would've found a way to cover it *up* for us, because *that* is who your father is, Athos," Kitos says.

Athos lifts his chin. "A liar and an accomplice to murder — presumably many times over?" 

"A man wedded to *justice* even more than he is to your very, very beautiful mother," Reynard says, and tilts his head to the side. "And you know this well, I think."

Athos smiles wryly. "I do, actually. Which is just one of many reasons why you all know him far, far better than I ever did," he says, and turns to Yejide. "What happened? Treville becomes agitated before Porthos even truly *begins* to feel pain. *How* did Belgard manage to get past him and what would have been, effectively, the full force of the King's Musketeers?" 

Yejide spreads her hands. "He waited to set his assassin on Amina and Porthos until Treville and his boys were out of the country —" 

Treville snarls again — 

"— and then, because Ife chose not to use me — or someone *like* me — when she and her sisters set the bindings and protections on Amina and the baby, they were... vulnerable. To other kinds of blood-magic. Death-magic," Yejide says, and frowns darkly. "Treville — his older self — was set to hunt. He would've done it anyway, of course. He'd lost his good friend and a very, very real piece of his *soul*." 

Porthos grunts. "You. You're talking about me." 

Yejide nods. 

Treville doesn't look at him. 

Porthos takes a breath and — looks away, too. "When you say my mum was vulnerable... I mean. Was the assassin a death-witch? Was — what *happened*?" 

"Again, Porthos, this is what I — we — all learned from the older Treville, who found *nothing* of you for five *years*." 

"Shit — but — but. I was five when my mum died." 

"You were five when she was murdered," Yejide says, staring into her mug and frowning once before setting it down again. "Treville found the would-be assassin only a few months after you and your mother disappeared. He was about to be hanged for slaughtering three wet-nurses and their charges in Reims. The assassin still had, caught in one of his boots, a hair from Amina's head. 

"That's how Treville tracked him down." 

For a moment, they're *all* looking at Treville — 

And then Reynard and Kitos move to flank him again. They don't *quite* reach for their weapons, or even really look like they *want* to, but... 

But. 

d'Artagnan licks his lips. "He — interrogated the assassin?" 

"I tortured every last scrap of information out of him until he was dead," Treville says. "Right?" 

Yejide nods again. "He didn't have much for you. He was mad — you told Ife he stank of it, and of a kind of it you'd never seen before. You told Ife that he frightened something inside you, because he didn't fit with the rest of humanity. Because if people like him existed, if they were just walking around like everyone else, then there was no reason to hope for anything good." Yejide laughs. "Ife probably told you something about looking to yourself. *I* would've told you there was a place in this world even for creatures like that —" 

"No." 

Yejide grins. "All good dogs need to sharpen their teeth and claws, Treville —" 

"What. What happened when I found — when I found Amina's body." 

Yejide takes a deep breath and — stops smiling.

Porthos isn't sure who or what he wants to look at right now — except that that's not true, because what he wants to look at is *any*-sodding-thing other than the grey tinge his mother's skin got at the end, and after — 

The way her beautiful bright eyes just — 

Just — 

And then Aramis is hugging him — *holding* him, dragging Porthos's head down to his shoulder and gripping the back of his head and whispering in Latin — 

A prayer? 

Something soft, something comforting — 

Something he can listen to other than — 

Except. 

"— death-witch on her. You could tell that her death hadn't been natural — though it would look that way to most — but the magic was all over her. You weren't familiar with it. Ife and her sisters were. 

"*Then* they called me. *Finally*. I was able to tell you what you were looking for, and who. I was able to tell you that Amina had been — probably — frightened enough by the mad assassin that she'd turned away from her witch-sisters to a death-witch who was *not me* —" And Yejide growls. "Guillou made a bargain with her, as I would have done. However, instead of her service, or her son's service, he took her life-force to strengthen his own. 

"There is nothing worse than a death-witch who fears death," Yejide says, and *spits* into her mug. "Ife and I gave Treville the tools he needed to take his vengeance. We... we hoped that Guillou's lack of familiarity with Treville would break him utterly. That he would *tell* Treville where Porthos was. That he would surrender that one *little* piece of his soul...

"He did not.

"Your older self told us that he considered it a point of honour as he died, Treville —" 

"It was bloody *spite*!" 

"Yes," Yejide says. "And you made him pay for it. Forever." 

That... 

Porthos frowns and looks up from Aramis's leathers — 

Aramis studies him hard, *worriedly* — but. 

"What. What does that mean. What did — the older Treville *do*?" 

Yejide nods to Treville. "When he loses you, boy, he will lose a piece of *his* soul. *Remember* that. Poets, balladeers — they make up songs about this all the time, but this is no *song*. When he loses you, boy, he will have a *hole* in him that the cold wind blows through day and night and *day*, until you come back to him again. Now, you, you'll practically be *born* with that hole in your soul. It'll change you — it *did* change you, and how you went about living your life, but? You won't ever really remember a time without it. 

"But he will. And he'll do everything in his power to get it *back*. He'll learn everything Ife and her sisters can teach. He'll teach himself still more. He'll find ways to use his power that most of us wouldn't touch with a white boy's *dick*." 

Reynard *coughs* — 

And Yejide's smile is a snarl. "He'll *hunt*, boy. Every chance he gets. Day and night and day. Until he finally has Guillou at his mercy, bleeding and crying from empty eye sockets —" 

d'Artagnan makes a choked and nauseated sound — 

Yejide laughs. "He'll keep him there. On the edge of pain and death. Day and night and day. Asking the same question, over and over. Killing him one little piece at a time. 

"One little *sliver*. 

"And then, when Guillou *still* won't give you back to him?" Yejide shrugs. "We blood-witches, we deal in service. There are *many* kinds of service, and Treville? He'll put that nasty old death-witch's spirit to work, trapped in his sword, where he'll scream and scream and scream. 

"Day. And night. And day."

For a long moment, no one says a word. 

And then Kitos sniffs — 

Shares a *look* with Reynard — 

"Seems fair." 

"Ah, oui," Reynard says, and wraps an arm around Treville's shoulders. "Good job, cher." 

Treville, for his part, looks a bit like he's wondering how he wound up with two sodding *madmen* for best mates, but — 

Porthos snorts. It only hurts a little. "I think you bloody *asked* for brothers *exactly* like those, mate." 

"Of *course* he —" 

"Because he didn't have you?" And Athos's quiet voice just — cuts. 

"Fuck, brother, don't —" 

"I apologize, but — how much of this are we supposed to *believe*?" 

d'Artagnan looks back and forth between them with a question in his eyes, shifting on his feet and ready to *spring* again, and — 

And Porthos is too tired for it. He shakes his head. "It's true, Athos. It's *all* bloody true. My mother... there is *nothing* she said to me more than one — always make sure you give what you can to witches, because you never sodding know when you'll need one, two — never bloody trust an aristocrat, because you never know when the one you *think's* your friend will *literally* stab you in the back, and three — as an *addendum* to one, be respectful to the death-witches, but otherwise stay the bloody hell *away* from them. I just. I was *five* when she died. Most of that didn't make any sense. But it all does now. Especially since..." Porthos blows out a breath and turns to Yejide. "You contacted me just about a *week* after I started officially training to be a Musketeer." 

"A week after Treville contacted me, and Ife, and her sisters, to let me know that you had come to him. That you were safe. That you were..." Yejide expression softens like clay for a long moment, moving through expressions she doesn't seem to be able to control until she pulls it back into a blank mask. "That you'd grown into a good, kind boy who needed looking-after." 

Porthos bites his lip and nods. "Looking-after the Captain of the King's Musketeers couldn't do for just another recruit." 

Kitos leans in and stage-whispers: "*Adopt him*." 

Treville's laugh is cracked as he shakes his head. "Amina. I have to. Yejide, you hinted that there was nothing wrong with me — with *us* — being here. You hinted that the fact that my power doesn't feel *wrong* here — no. Tell me. Be plain. Because I *have* to get back to my Amina, and I have to — to make this right. You know I do." 

And, when Porthos looks, his hands are balled into *tight* fists — 

And Yejide takes another deep breath. "The fact that the only thing that feels *wrong* — *still* — is *Porthos's* energies is the heart of the problem, Treville. Whatever happened to *send* you boys here from — where?" 

Reynard crosses his arms over his chest. "A nameless tavern a bit more than a mile to the northwest. The area is burnt-out now." 

Yejide narrows her eyes and shakes her head. "There's nothing especially powerful there, nothing especially holy or..." She throws up a hand. "The energies of the *universe* folded and wove themselves around and through the scar of your passage." 

Kitos beetles his brows. "Uh. What?" 

Treville growls. "She means that the door was closed and *locked* behind us." 

"Fuck —" 

Reynard grips Treville's shoulder. "How do we *unlock* it?" 

Yejide shakes her head. "This isn't my magic, boys. And it isn't the magic of anyone I *know* — who the older Treville hasn't torn into tiny pieces for one crime or another. But," she says, and smiles wryly. "*He* didn't tell *me* everything. Talk to Ife." 

"She's still —" 

"That old cat is eternal," Yejide says, and *looks* at Treville. "And she's been living on your lands for the past seventeen years." 

Treville inhales sharply — 

Lifts his chin a *little* — 

And then he, Reynard, and Kitos bow *almost* as one. 

d'Artagnan *looks* like he wants to say something salty as hell to that, but Athos had crept up beside him at some point, and *grips* the back of his neck. d'Artagnan winces — 

And Aramis and Porthos bow to Yejide, too, before Aramis turns to Treville and says, "I believe, among the four of us, we have enough to hire horses to get us all to the garrison?" 

"It's the opposite direction from the manor," Treville says, and grits his teeth. 

Reynard kisses Treville's forehead like a punch. "You will *sleep*, cher. And you will let the *other* witch sleep, too." 

For a moment, Treville looks like *their* Treville, full head of hair and all. He's thunderous and scowling and his eyes look like the imminent death of most of Spain and at least half of the really *annoying* uppity clerics he can think of off the top of his head. 

And then Kitos picks him up, throws him over his shoulder, and carries him out the door. 

Just... like that. 

Reynard shrugs. "Notre frère, you know, sometimes the direct approach is best," he says, and tips his hat to all of them. "We will meet outside, oui?" 

They... nod at him. 

He goes. 

Athos closes d'Artagnan's mouth for him — 

d'Artagnan swallows and coughs and — "I think I *really* want to get drunk tonight." 

"Oddly enough, I can sympathize," Athos says, and wraps an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders. "Give Aramis your purse." 

d'Artagnan frowns just like he's thinking. "Is that a good idea?" 

"Almost never, but tonight, yes." 

d'Artagnan nods, a bit numbly, and hands it over. 

Porthos jerks his chin at Athos. "You're putting your purse to the noble task of getting our recruit well and truly plastered?" 

"Absolutely. I find myself curious to find out whether he becomes any more violent." 

"*Shit*. I wanna see that —" 

Aramis clears his throat.

Quietly. 

And then just *barely* touches the back of Porthos's hand with his fingertips, and there are, maybe, a few things he'd like to see more than d'Artagnan wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting populace. 

A few things that got put on *hold* — 

Aramis — wants him. 

And a lot more than that. 

And if he lets himself start thinking about how much more then he'll lose his sodding *mind* — 

"Right, uh. We'll... uh..." 

Athos looks *pointedly* at their hands — and then looks up with a wry smile. "You'll be headed downstairs to make sure our... visitors aren't doing anything horrifically untoward? And then you'll be bunking relatively near them —" 

"We will be doing nothing of the *kind*!" 

Yejide laughs, low and dirty and *mean*. 

Aramis blushes *hard* — 

Right. Just — right. Porthos peeks out from around Aramis. "Yejide? Thank you. Please protect me in less frightening ways in the future." 

"Mm. No promises," she says, and shoos them out. 

They doff their hats and go, and, once in the hallway — 

"*Athos*, do not *make* us bunk with those *animals* —" 

"Someone needs to —" 

"Do you think... I mean." d'Artagnan frowns. "It's not just me, right? There's something really *odd* about this Treville." 

They pause at the top of the stairs. 

They look at him. 

"Oh — *what*? I meant *other* than the — than the everything. Actually. Now that I think about it." 

They stop staring at d'Artagnan and continue down the stairs. 

"As I was saying," Athos says, and *looks* at Aramis. "Someone has to stay close to them, and it makes sense for *one* of those people to be Porthos, because —" 

"Treville *feels* better when he is close, yes, I know this thing, but —" 

"Uh. How do *you* feel when he's close?" And d'Artagnan gives him a look. 

That — "Well. Same as I always feel, I guess. Good, you know." 

Silence. 

Silence — 

"Oh, sodding *what*? He's *Treville*!" 

"Porthos. Beautiful Porthos —" 

"Oh. I like *that* —" 

"Good! Beautiful Porthos, he is a twenty-three-year-old murdering, torturing witch who buggers little boys — and big boys! — and also he literally owns a piece of your soul." 

"Right, well, I can see how that could seem disturbing to some —"

Aramis snorts and punches him — 

Porthos laughs out his air, throws Aramis against a wall — 

"You *arse* — *mm* —" 

And kissing Aramis like this — 

In front of *Athos* — 

It's maybe a little different than doing it front of d'Artagnan. 

There's a weight to Athos's regard — 

There's a weight to Athos's regard even when he's sodding *nineteen* sheets to the wind and this close to pissing himself and passing out in the *puddle*. 

But like this? 

When he's had *exactly* too much time to sober up? 

Porthos has *always* been able to feel Athos's eyes on him, has always known exactly where Athos was in any given room, has always — 

*Always* — 

And *no*, absolutely *none* of those attempts to get into his trousers were jokes, but maybe — just maybe — a few of them were attempts to put the way Athos *looks* at him into... some kind of context. 

Looks like that should come with touches. Should — 

And no, this *isn't* the right time for him to be kissing *Aramis* slower, for him to be cupping his face just so, turning it, gripping his hip with his other hand and — 

And showing Athos. 

Showing him. 

Showing him *exactly* what he could have if he just — 

But Aramis shudders and groans, and there are no scars on the mouth under his own, and the beard is neat and pretty and *weirdly* feminine, and the musk and sweat and steel and gunpowder is cut with *fine* perfume, and — 

Porthos has wanted to taste it for sodding *ages*. 

So he does, licking his way back behind Aramis's ear — 

Sucking there — 

Sucking there *hard* — 

"P-Porthos —" 

*Shoving* Aramis against the *wall* hard — 

"Please — fuck — fuck, not *here*," Aramis says, laughing, gasping, so *happy* — 

And Porthos has a *horrible* moment of guilt for using most of their kiss to talk to *Athos* — 

Has to — 

Has to just — 

He grips Aramis by the hair and the hip and kisses down his throat, his pretty *throat*, and right now he wouldn't change a thing if Richelieu and the bloody *King* were watching, because Aramis is making low, dirty, *gurgling* noises — 

Aramis *bucks* — 

And Porthos promises, with every kiss, that he'll make it right for Aramis, that he'll do — 

He'll make it right. 

"God —!" 

And *then* he can pull back — 

And stare into Aramis's wide, delighted eyes — 

And watch them narrow and turn sly, hot — 

So *hot* — 

"Aramis..." 

"The others..." He licks his lips. "It seems I have chased them away with all of my noise, beautiful Porthos." 

Porthos blinks — and looks — 

And turns back to Aramis with *intent* — 

Aramis laughs *filthily* —

"Fuck, you're gorgeous —" 

"Even when I am not convenient to teach object lessons to our brothers...?" 

Porthos opens his mouth — and blushes *hard*. "I... fuck —" 

Aramis covers Porthos's mouth with two fingers and shakes his head, eyes *wild*. "No, no, beautiful Porthos. Please *do* use me this way." 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"Use me *hard*. Use me *dirty*. Use me *cruelly*. Show them — both of them — what they can have if they show *you* proper respect. Mm?" And then he drags his fingers down over Porthos's beard — 

Down his chest — 

"My Porthos... he should have what he wishes." 

"Yeah?" 

"Oh, yes," Aramis says, and licks his teeth. 

"What do *you* wish?" 

"For you to have —" 

Porthos shoves two fingers into Aramis's mouth — 

Aramis *bucks* again, grabbing at himself like a *boy* — 

"Oh... Aramis..." 

And then Aramis gives him a hungry look, a needy look, a *bruised* look... 

And an idea that *chokes* Porthos with its hugeness, its — its sodding *massiveness* — just. 

Blooms. 

All over him. 

All through him. 

Porthos checks to make sure no one's near the door — 

And then he leans in close to Aramis's ear and *slowly* pulls his fingers out of Aramis's mouth — but leaves them resting on his lower lip. 

"Aramis." 

"Yes. Yes, Porthos." 

"What happens if I order you to do something tonight? Something — something sexual." 

"I do it." 

Fuck — "Anything I order?" 

"Anything," Aramis says, without a moment's hesitation. 

Just — "And it's hotter if I *do* order?" 

"If — if you —" 

"No. Yes or no." 

"*Fuck* — Porthos. Yes. Yes. Please." 

Porthos *pants* against Aramis's ear. "Aramis... you know I haven't. I haven't played this way in a really long time..." 

"I... have certainly not observed you doing so, no," Aramis says, and laughs a little *madly* — 

Porthos *snorts*. "Fuck, I love you —" 

"Oh —" 

"And. You have to tell me one thing, all right? One thing, and then we can just figure the rest out as we go." 

"Anything, I will tell you —" 

"Are we *playing*."

"Oh." 

"Is it — is this — is this a *game* that we shrug off and just —" 

"Games are... casual things, my Porthos." 

"Yeah — yeah, they are — hey —" 

And Aramis pushes Porthos back until they're facing each other, *eyeing* each other, in the gloom. "Lovers — true lovers — they should not be casual about very many things, I don't think." 

"Oh — shit —" And Porthos kisses Aramis hard, just — just *hard* — 

Aramis *nods* into it and then just *takes* it — 

It's everything Porthos *has* not to start *stripping* Aramis and touching and — 

But he still has to grip him through his trousers, feel the heat of him muted through the leather — 

Feel him, *taste* him, moan into his *mouth* — 

And then pull back and just *watch* that gorgeous face flush darker and darker as he squeezes — 

And squeezes just a little harder than that. 

Just — not too painfully. 

Aramis shivers and moans. "It — my beautiful Porthos is making promises?" 

"Yeah. But mainly just molesting you," Porthos says, grinning and leaning in for a *quick* kiss. 

"You've wanted to do this for... some time." 

"Aramis, I've wanted to grab your prick and squeeze since we *met*. Since before you opened your beautiful *mouth*," Porthos says, and *rides* that prick a little with the heel of his palm. 

Aramis grunts and slides down the wall a little — 

"Oh — yeah. Yeah, no, we're doing this," Porthos says, and starts working open Aramis's trousers — 

"Porthos —" 

"Don't say no," Porthos says, and *checks* — 

Aramis looks *exactly* like Porthos had just slapped him with his prick in every best way in the world, so — 

He's going to go with 'yes' on that. He gets the trousers open and out of the way — 

And the breeches — 

"Oh, look at your prick..." 

"Yes. Yes?" 

"So hard for me. So *hot*," Porthos says, cupping Aramis's throat with one hand and that prick with the other — 

Aramis *gurgles* — 

"You're bloody perfect, but I'm not choking you — this time —" 

Aramis bucks into Porthos's fist — 

Again — 

Again again *again* — 

"Or maybe I am, shit," Porthos says, grinning and squeezing with *both* hands — 

Aramis's eyes roll up — 

His prick *spasms* — 

"You are so sodding *hot*," Porthos says, *pinning* Aramis to the wall by his throat and *working* that prick — 

Working that *foreskin*, pulling and tugging a little roughly, a little *meanly* — 

Aramis opens his mouth on a soundless yell and tosses his *head* — 

His prick is drooling all over Porthos's *fingers* — 

Porthos pulls the foreskin past the head, pulls it taut and pinches — 

Aramis bucks and swivels his sodding *hips* — 

"Fuck, there is absolutely *nothing* I don't want to *try* with you —" 

And Aramis opens his eyes wide — 

His expression is so *hopeful* — 

"Oh, Aramis — fuck, *Aramis* —" And Porthos growls and kisses him again, kisses him so hard, so — 

No, he bites that mouth, that jaw, that perfect beard — 

He squeezes that throat *harder* when he can feel Aramis start hitching for breath — 

Kisses Aramis again — 

Gets *licked* — 

Licked like — 

"I think. I think Treville is *actually* some kind of dog. Like... like a *real* dog, somehow." 

Aramis looks at him incredulously. 

"But, right, you're the *only* bitch on heat I'm concerned with right now," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows *slightly* — 

But Aramis misses it, because his knees are buckling and he's throwing his head back and he's *not* going to spend like that, not just for *that*, so Porthos bites Aramis's bottom lip hard and strokes that prick, jerks it and strokes it and squeezes it *tight* — 

Aramis is shaking like a *leaf* — 

And then Porthos loosens his grip on Aramis's throat — 

Aramis *whoops* in a breath — 

Porthos squeezes his prick *viciously* — 

Aramis *howls* — and spends, spattering Porthos's leathers in a way that Porthos should probably do something to avoid, but — 

No. 

Absolutely fucking not. 

"That's right, pet, give it up —" 

"Fuck — fuck —" 

"Spend all over me —" 

"*Porthos* —" 

"Get your Master *all* dirty and then lick it *up* —"

And then Aramis *knocks* Porthos's hands away, drops to his *knees* — 

"Ah, *shit*, Aramis —" 

— and does just that, cleaning Porthos's leathers with his clever pink tongue and — 

"Pet — fuck, pet, you've got me so *hard* for you..." 

Aramis licks *faster* — 

"You make me want..." Porthos pushes a hand into Aramis's hair and laughs, shaking his head. "Everything. You make me want everything." 

Aramis *slurps* the last spatter away. "Perhaps... my Master will tell me *one* thing he wants?" 

"Oh — Aramis." 

Aramis sits back on his heels and smiles up at him wryly. "Should I not call you that *quite* yet, my Porthos?" 

"I — uh." Porthos looks at the *door* — 

Behind which are increasingly impatient sodding *people* — 

But. "Later. *Definitely* later." 

Aramis smiles up at him so *sweetly*. 

"You're so gorgeous," Porthos says, petting him gently. "Let's — wait, one thing. One." 

"Yes... Porthos." 

"Oh, you dirty — mm. Right." Porthos licks his lips. "I want you flat on your back, on a bed, with your head up on a pillow, while I straddle your *chest* —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"And see how *slowly* I can manage to feed you my prick before I'm just sodding *reaming* you." 

"Oh — Porthos. Porthos. Yes. Please," Aramis says, and licks *his* lips. "*Please*." 

"Yeah? All *right* then," Porthos says, and reaches down to haul Aramis up. 

He immediately reaches to do up his breeches and trousers, but... 

But. Porthos pushes his hands away gently and does it himself, holding Aramis's gaze the whole time — and feeling him get harder and harder. When he's done, he gives Aramis a *pat* — "You liked that." 

"I... want to use that word." 

"If you do, I'll fuck you *through* that wall." 

Aramis looks *thoughtfully* pained. Like — 

"Aramis —" 

"It's only —" 

"Aramis, no —" 

"I do not need you to be slow and *gentle* —" 

"*Fuck*, Aramis —" 

And then the door bursts open, and Athos is glaring at them like the grimmest, meanest, mop-toppiest death imaginable. 

Which. 

"Don't even start, mate — *you* get to go drinking with the recruit." 

"*I* get to stop d'Artagnan from declaring vengeance on random strangers in taverns. Alternately, from vomiting on me while becoming increasingly weepy and maudlin about whether he's a good enough *lover* to please a married woman he never intends to actually *seduce*." 

Porthos and Aramis share a look. 

"You know, dear leader —" 

"You have spend in your beard, Aramis." 

"I thank you! I really wouldn't want that to go to waste," Aramis says, swiping it up and *licking* it up and — "As I was saying —" 

"I don't want to hear it." 

"Too bad. As I was saying — you have *options* for *directing* the *course* of young d'Artagnan's first foray into alcoholic stuporousness." 

Athos *looks* at Aramis. 

Porthos cuffs Athos. "Just stick your hands down his pants, mate. His todger's sodding *massive*, but it probably won't bite you." 

Athos closes his eyes, takes a breath, opens his eyes, turns around, and walks out. 

Aramis sighs. "Where were we?" 

Porthos snickers. "Going out there to do our duty —" 

"No!" 

"As good, responsible —" 

"Stop this at once!" 

"We could get *them* drunk? They might pass out and save us the trouble of nannying 'em." 

Aramis looks at him for a long moment. "Beautiful Porthos..." 

"Yeah?" 

"Do you ever find yourself hesitant, or cautious, or in any way trepidatious about the actions you are about to undertake?" 

"Nah. You?" 

"Not at all. Shall we?" 

"Onward!"


	5. Brothers should be close. *koff*

The interesting thing about Aramis — 

One of the many, many interesting things about Aramis — though there is no part of Treville which can allow even the possibility that there's something *more* interesting than the fact that he likes sucking up Porthos's spend — 

That he likes taking Porthos's orders — 

That, even now, he's waiting for *permission* to call Porthos *Master* — 

Treville's senses are much, much stronger now than they used to be — the spells that bound him to Amina and Porthos corrected the damage of a lifetime *and* gave him a lot more to work with — and Aramis and Porthos hadn't been that subtle to begin with. 

And... 

Treville can't help wanting to examine this Aramis, this pretty alley-cat of a killer who laughs with true happiness when you call him a whore —

And who doesn't get one *iota* less deadly when he's drunk. 

Kitos, bless him, has taken off his weapons-belts entirely in favour of making himself as cuddly as possible in his hopeful corner by the window. The moonlight puts silver in his wonderful beard. 

Porthos is cheerful and relaxed on the floor against the bunk across from Treville — hands nowhere near *any* of his weapons, unlike Aramis, next to Porthos, who is ready for a shot, a dagger-throw, a shot from the arquebusier he'd 'casually' rested next to his *thigh*... mm. 

Reynard... 

Well, *most* of Reynard's attention has been on *him* tonight, and while that's not strange for a night when there aren't any *women* around...

There's something different about it, just the same. Something — old. 

Reynard is studying him from his place behind and above Treville on the bunk Treville is leaning against. That shouldn't ever — 

Treville shakes his head and stands, and deliberately disarms himself, and then sits on the bed with Reynard — who raises an eyebrow at him and passes him the bottle. 

We'll talk, Treville does his level best to say with his eyes. 

Reynard presses his broad, soft lips together — that's not a good enough answer for him. 

Treville isn't sure *what* would be good enough — 

"There is something I am not sure of, Treville," Aramis says, taking a drink from one of the smaller bottles — it won't impede as much of his vision — and keeping his other hand near the arquebusier. 

The fact that he chose to keep the arquebusier-hand free instead of the pistol-hand... 

Well, now Treville knows that Aramis is one of the better riders, or at least sees himself that way, and — 

It's time to speak. "I'll answer you if I can," he says, and takes a long drink of his own before handing the bottle back to Reynard, who — 

Strokes his fingers as he takes it. 

Treville *looks* at Reynard — 

Tries to *ask* — 

But Reynard just looks back, steady and *hard*. 

It makes Treville want to promise just — everything, everything he bloody *can*, but he already knows Reynard doesn't *want* those promises, that — 

("What — cher, what are you *doing*?") 

And Reynard had been laughing — they'd *both* been laughing, drunk under the stars after having snuck out of the garrison together — 

The honeysuckle hadn't seemed any sweeter than the wine — 

But Treville had cupped Reynard's long, lean thigh and stroked *up*, just a little — 

("Cher —" 

"Reynard, if you don't *know* what I'm doing, at this point, then we might have a problem.") 

And they'd laughed more, *more* — 

And Reynard had tackled Treville and *rolled* them — 

Treville had let him pin him — 

There'd been time, he remembers, to dream of being beautiful Reynard's boy — 

He'd arched *up* — 

Tried for a kiss — 

("Oh — mon ami, non, non —" 

"No? You don't like kisses?" 

"I... ah. I don't like *men*.") 

And that had been... 

It *hadn't* been the end of laughter, and that had been... so important. 

Reynard had been rueful, amused, drunk and seemingly amazed that anyone — even a known buggerer like Treville — would take the attentions of a beautiful man — 

A fit and gorgeous man — 

The soft and cheerful and honestly affectionate, honestly *flirtatious* — 

("Mon cher, mon ami — should I apologize? I did not mean —" 

"Don't — don't." 

"But —") 

And Treville had sat up, pushed Reynard up straight — 

*Gripped* Reynard's strong shoulder — 

*Wanted* — and forced himself to smile. 

("Brother..."

"Oui, oui, mon frère —" 

"Brother, if you *need* to apologize for being yourself, then *I* need to apologize —" 

"*Non* —" 

"We — made the wrong assumptions. I did —" 

"I — I made you think —" 

"I don't want you to change a thing about how you are with me.") 

And Reynard had made a low sound — and then grinned — 

("Ah, oui? It is not... too much?") 

And that — and Reynard's worried look — had said everything, really. 

There *had* been other men, other men who had taken Reynard's brotherhood and wanted more — 

More than Reynard could ever give. 

So there'd been only one thing to do: 

Pick up the mostly-empty bottle from where it had rolled away — 

Finish it off — 

("Oh — selfish —") 

Wipe his mouth showily — 

Lick his lips even *more* showily — 

("Mon ami...") 

And then lay back on his elbows with the showiest possible *smirk* on his face and say: 

("Brother. I may think you're mad for passing up a chance at this...") 

And he'd gestured to his shorter, less graceful, less *everything* body as if it were a work of Greek *art* — 

("Oh — *cher* —" 

"But I'm hardly going to *judge* you for it, brother —") 

And Reynard had *coughed* laughter — 

("I mean, we all have our little idiosyncrasies —") 

Reynard had begun *wheezing* —

("Kitos, you know, his chest hair starts at his eyebrows..."

"Mon ami, je t'aime, say we will always be *brothers*!") 

And Reynard had cupped Treville's face with both hands — 

Stared down into his eyes and — 

And everything *in* Treville had ached for a kiss, a *kiss* — 

("Toujours, Reynard. *Toujours*.") 

For a moment, Reynard's hands had shaken on Treville's face. 

His rough fingertips had dragged *jaggedly* against Treville's stubbled cheeks — 

And then Reynard had grinned like a boy, like — 

Like the most beautiful of boys, always and forever, as he'd thrown himself down beside Tréville in the grass — 

As he'd twined their fingers together — 

("We will be together *forever*, mon cher —" 

"Yeah — yes —" 

"Tu es mon frère, et je suis à toi —"

"Always, *always* —" 

"And I'm sorry, I'm sorry I cannot —" 

"Don't — never apologize for that. I won't let you.") 

And Reynard's breath had caught in his throat as they'd stared at each other from so close *together* — 

And. 

They're that close right now, fingers twined round the bottle, Reynard's other hand splayed on the wall next to Treville's head — 

"Ça va, cher?" 

Treville grunts — and deals with the fact that he'd been... lost in his own memories for just that long. 

That he'd — 

But *how* had that happened? He *never* feels safe enough around strangers to just drift like that, to — 

And Reynard leans closer still, hair down — 

Smoky with gunpowder, silky and soft against Treville's cheek — 

'We're being rude,' Treville mouths. 

'Do you care?' 

'To a certain extent —' 

'Your boy? Or *his* boy.' 

And that... Treville frowns and studies Reynard, studies the flash in his eyes, the heat — 

And the knowledge, deep within *himself*, that the next words out of his mouth should be: 

'I was thinking, just now, of the *second* time we promised to be brothers forever, by the way. Not anything else.' 

Reynard blinks — and then looks at him with doubt, with need, with *hunger* — 

Hunger that will always, *always* make Treville want exactly *one* thing — 

'Mon frère... I was a boy then.' 

'What —' 

'I was a boy, and we must talk; and we must talk, at length, about the fact that you are soft for *your* boy —' 

'I'm *not* —' 

'Soft enough that you lose yourself, that you *can* lose yourself in ways that were once.' And Reynard just... stops, licking his soft lips. 

His broad mouth. 

He frowns, shakes his head, and — "Tu es mon frère, Treville, et je suis *à toi*. *Toujours*." 

"Bien sûr —" 

Kitos grunts, from over by the window. "You lads *sure* you *have* to nanny us? We really *don't* plan on getting up to any tricks." 

There's an immediate sting of *panic* at the thought of Porthos going *anywhere* — 

Treville closes his eyes against it. 

Just —

"I think maybe we ought to stay a *little* close," Porthos says, low and wry and — looking at him. 

Treville can feel it. 

"Does my Porthos *wish* to stay close...?" Aramis. 

Aramis, who, perhaps, has maybe more than one thing in common with Reynard right now. 

Treville opens his eyes again, turns to watch the man, to study him — 

To study him *openly* studying Porthos — 

Who clearly doesn't mind in the least being *claimed* by Aramis, for all that he's letting the man keep his arms free. 

Treville isn't sure he'd be able to let anyone — a *brother* — who also wanted to be his *pet* be that kind of free. 

Not on their first night — 

But Porthos is looking at him again — 

They're looking *into* each other — 

And Treville feels himself settling inside even as he feels himself needing, feels himself calming and quieting and *easing* — 

Even as he feels himself needing — desperately — to touch. 

And then Reynard's lips are against Treville's *ear* — 

*Pressed* there so hot and *hard* — 

It's not a *kiss* — 

It can't possibly be — 

Not after so much, not after so much time, and everything *else* — 

And then Reynard pulls back, without a word, and settles against the footboard with the bottle. 

He — doesn't drink. 

He hasn't *been* drinking. Not that much. 

None of them have. 

They — 

Treville looks to Kitos — 

Kitos shrugs, rueful and gentle, and then turns back to Porthos and Aramis. "Tell you what. You boys can nanny *me* all night and day —" 

Porthos snorts. "Oh, *can* we?" 

"I *promise* to wedge myself between the two of you *right* when you're trying to get *good* and intimate, like —" 

"Friend Kitos, have you always been suicidal?" 

Kitos booms laughter while Treville snorts and Porthos snickers and grins and — finally; it feels like a finally — cups, not grips, the back of Aramis's neck and leans in to kiss him — 

"Love you *so* much, pet —" 

Treville would like to know... many things. 

Including how *much* Aramis is thinking about the fact that Porthos is blocking his shots, *plural*. 

And how much Porthos is thinking about the same thing. 

Reynard, though... 

Reynard isn't laughing, and he still isn't drinking, and it's past time for Treville to think about everything he *has* been doing. 

Treville waits — no. He doesn't. "Porthos," he says, and watches the man stiffen even as he *keeps* kissing Aramis. 

Even as he sucks Aramis's lower lip — 

*His* lips are pink — 

Almost shockingly so — 

And Treville realizes that he's using that knowledge, that *focus*, to distract himself from the fact that this close — and he can *feel* that it *is*, in part, a matter of proximity — he can feel Porthos growing aroused. 

Feel him — 

For Aramis. 

Aramis. 

Anyone would, and he can't — yet — fault Porthos's taste, and — 

And he'd like — 

Right now, among the other twenty-eight or so things he could use, it would be nice to have the knowledge of whether his continued — if slight — disapproval of Aramis is based on anything useful, anything — 

He's Porthos's dog, Porthos's *guard* dog — but even guard dogs get jealous of their boys' attention, don't they? 

He has to remember that. 

Treville barks a short laugh and shakes his head — 

And Kitos booms a laugh at — all of them, by the — 

By the scent of him. It's time to admit that, too. 

"Look at you two! My brothers! So grim! Now you two know what it's like when you ignore everyone *else* for each other, eh? Eh?" 

Reynard — cringes. It's small — only one shoulder twitches — but the scents of his shame and worry and need and fear and — 

No. 

No. 

Treville growls, and he'd know exactly how flat and *animal* it came out by the way Kitos and Reynard immediately straighten, immediately *start* to move to flank him, to *back* him in whatever he chooses to *do* — 

And by the way Aramis is absolutely aiming that arquebusier — *trying* to aim it at him. 

Porthos won't let him. 

"*Porthos* —" 

"He called for my attention once," Porthos says, and *forces* Aramis's arm down. "He did it the human way. I chose to ignore it, so he had to make himself heard another way." 

"You should be allowed —" 

"'Should' isn't a concern here, Aramis. This..." Porthos shakes his head once and smiles ruefully as he squeezes Aramis's wrist. "It's blood. And it's time to trust them." 

Aramis narrows his eyes and looks like he wants to *dissect* Porthos — 

It makes too *much* of Treville want to spring, even though the rest of him knows perfectly well that *Aramis's* expression doesn't speak of any real harm for Porthos —

"Treville. It's all right," Porthos says *firmly*, without turning away from Aramis — 

And Treville knows that Porthos can feel him, feel him... at least as well as Treville can feel *him*. Treville grunts an assent. 

Reynard takes a quick breath, looking back and forth between Porthos and Treville — 

And Treville nods to him and smiles ruefully. "I —" 

"Mon frère... does he feel what you feel?" And Reynard's voice is unsteady, needy, *hungry* — 

"Some of it — I. Well. I don't know —" 

"But you *do* know, oui?" 

Treville doesn't close his eyes. "I — yes." 

Reynard firms his lips together and nods, and then turns to Aramis. "I have been low, Aramis. I have been needlessly provocative. I have been cruel and —" He sucks his teeth and shakes his head. "I have nothing here. I *am* nothing here but a man neither you nor your Porthos have any reason to —" 

"You have one thing you can give us," Aramis says, and deliberately sits up on the bunk he had been leaning against — away from his weapons.

Reynard blinks — 

Treville can *feel* the lowering atmosphere of Kitos's attention as he decides whether Aramis is about to make himself an enemy again — 

But Porthos reaches up to cup, not grip, Aramis's lower thigh. Not a warning. A statement of trust. 

"What is it?" Reynard asks. "I will give it to you both, because I need — I need time with my brothers tonight." 

"Your honesty," Aramis says, and takes a long drink from the bottle. "I will be specific: Every time you have touched your Treville with a certain *kind* of love tonight, a certain *kind* of affection, *he* has been shocked —" 

"I don't rightly think that's any of your business," Kitos says, flat and warning. 

"I." Reynard laughs, musical and breathless. "That is precisely what I need to talk to *them* —" 

"Then, perhaps," Aramis says, and smiles gently, "you will tell us if, by chance, you grew up in a small town...?" 

Reynard blinks. "Oui, dans le Périgord —" 

"And if, in that small town, the biggest building was —" 

"The church, of course —" 

"And the most powerful man?" 

"The priest — Aramis, what —" 

"Please, this — this is valuable currency you are giving me, I promise," Aramis says, and makes a soothing gesture. 

Reynard frowns and nods. 

"We are, I think, not so different as these things go. I, too, had a small town, with a big church, and a powerful priest. But..." Aramis cocks his head to the side. "My father, he was very adamant that I grow up just *like* that priest. I do not think your father was quite the same...?" 

For a moment, all three of them *stare* at Aramis, as if they'll be able to see some sign of his mother stabbing his father, or *him* stabbing his father, or — whatever had happened to get a boy who had most definitely not been named Aramis to a point where he could be... named Aramis. 

And then Aramis laughs, low and dirty. "I ran *away* from the seminary. With a great *deal* of malice in my heart... but. You, Reynard. You never made it to such a place." 

"No," Reynard says, and — looks a lot less confused, which is impressive, because Treville still feels lost — and he knows Kitos does, too.

And he can *feel* that Porthos is just following wherever Aramis leads. 

But — Reynard is still talking.

"Father Amlethus — and my own father — they were not so specific about what a proper man should be. There were... choices." 

"Oh, yes? Many?" 

Reynard's expression is sour. "Do not be absurd. My desire to be a soldier — honourable, brave, and true — was... lucky. Even when I was a boy, I knew this." 

"So. Perhaps you were also lucky about other things?" 

For a moment, the sour expression darkens to something uglier, more painful, more — 

Treville moves close, crawling to the foot of the bunk — 

But Reynard stops him with a raised hand — and doesn't look at him. 

"Brother —" 

"Non, mon frère. This is a price I owe," he says, and the ugly look fades out of his pale olive eyes, leaving only pain and determination. 

It's — 

Treville still has to take his big, hard, scarred hand, and hold it in both of his — 

Squeeze it *tight* — 

And Reynard shivers once, all over, and squeezes him back. And smiles at him, just for a moment, quick and bright and close-mouthed and beautiful — 

So beautiful — 

Reynard doesn't turn away before saying: "It made... so much sense. There were the girls and women it was proper to fuck, and the ones I was supposed to avoid until the marriage being a soldier would allow me to avoid... indefinitely. I did not think, so much, about why I wanted to avoid a marriage..." 

Treville blinks. "Reynard?" 

He shrugs. "I also did not think, so much, about why I wanted to have... brothers. Why I needed to have them. Why I always needed to hug them, and touch them, and sleep with them, and *fuck* with them —"

And Kitos grunts and stands, moving close. "That's enough. That's — you've both had *enough* —" 

Reynard turns to Kitos. "No, frère, it's fine. I will tell this —" 

"'s not for bloody *them* —" 

"Frère, what do I have? What can I give to pay for my bad behaviour? What can I — you, I *know* you know what I will say, you have always been so *wise* under all your *fur*," Reynard says, and coughs rough and pained-sounding laughter — 

And Kitos growls and bends down and swallows Reynard in a hug, all-encompassing and utterly protective. 

And Reynard's hand is shaking in Treville's own, and he wants. 

He wants — 

He lifts it, slowly, *slowly*, to his mouth — 

He *breathes* on it so that Reynard can *feel* what he's doing — Kitos still has him *buried* —

And Reynard... pushes his hand closer to Treville's mouth. He. 

He offers. 

*Asks* — 

Treville kisses it, and kisses it again, and opens Reynard's fist — 

Reynard's hand is shaking even *more* — 

Treville growls needily, so *fucking* needily, and he can't stop himself from licking Reynard's palm instead of just kissing it, licking the salt and sweat away — 

Panic-sweat, pain-sweat, so much *hurt* — 

Treville licks between Reynard's fingers — 

Reynard's hand stiffens — 

Treville *pauses* — 

And Reynard moans, long and low and sweet, so sweet, muffled by the great and solid and *perfect* mass that is Kitos — and then not, because Kitos is pulling back, slowly and carefully and gently — 

Kitos is staring down into Reynard's wide eyes — "All right, brother?" 

Reynard pants — "Ne sais pas que je fais, I don't know, I don't *know* —" 

"Well," Kitos says, and booms a *little* laugh. "Then I guess it's a good thing that our nannies have scarpered, hey?" 

Treville *blinks* — 

And Kitos turns to laugh *at* him. "*You* missed it, *too*, Basset?" 

"I..." And Treville concentrates, just — 

Porthos is close. 

Porthos is barely even *outside* these otherwise deserted barracks — 

"You can feel him, cher?" 

"Yes. He's... they're not so far outside," Treville says, swallowing and turning back to Reynard and Kitos — 

And Kitos grunts. "Makes sense. If they went too far, too fast, you *would've* felt them, right?" 

"Yes. I. Reynard, I — both of you, I'm sorry, I know I've been —" 

"Wait, cher, wait, I — tell me. Tell me one thing?" 

"Anything, of course I'll tell you — and we can have — but I won't rush you or —" 

"Ah — *merde*. Mon frère, mon cher, I am shaking again, I am shaking again, and I can't —" 

And Kitos leans down again and kisses Reynard's forehead — 

Reynard makes a soft noise — 

Kitos kisses Reynard's mouth softly, softly — 

Reynard shakes *hard* — 

*Clutches* Kitos with the hand Treville isn't holding — 

And Kitos pulls back slowly and laughs. "Mm. Don't suppose I could convince you to shave?" 

"What. What? I —" 

Kitos kisses Reynard's forehead again. "One of us doesn't *quite* fit in this bed." 

"Kitos..." 

Kitos smiles and cups Reynard's beautiful face with his massive hands. "My brother. We'll pile all these blankets together on the floor after you and Basset have your chat, hey? Make our nannies regret leaving us to our own devices." 

Reynard laughs shakily and clutches Kitos hard for a moment — "Kitos, frère, did you always know? About me?" 

Kitos looks back and forth between him and Treville and runs the fingers of one hand through his beard — 

Reynard stops clutching Kitos for long enough to do the same thing — 

And Kitos smiles gently down at him. "Know? I don't think I ever really *knew* much of anything... other than that *he* was in love with *you*, and that *you* were in love with *him*, and that I was pretty sure there were only a limited number of ways that could go." 

Reynard's laugh is cracked and wild as he turns to face *him* again. "I just thought, mon cher, he is everything I wish, he is everything I have *ever* wished —" 

Treville *groans* —

"Oh — cher —" 

"Talk — just keep talking, say it *all* —" 

"Oui, ah, oui, to both of you —" 

"Right, right, just let me get my nice, big, floor-bed ready," Kitos says — 

And Reynard laughs more — 

Licks his lips — 

Reaches for Treville with his free hand — 

Treville takes it and licks the wrist, nuzzles it, sniffs, snuffles, *bites* — 

"*Merde* — cher, mon cher, vraiment, ne sais pas —" 

"I do," Treville growls before he can stop himself, before he can think about going *easy* — 

"Ah — *fuck*," Reynard says, and snatches his hands away — 

It feels like having his *skin* removed — until Treville sees that Reynard is only stripping himself, only — 

Doing it fast, *fast*, and maybe some other time he'll let Treville do it *for* him — 

Treville groans and strips *himself*, pulling off his boots and socks, standing to get rid of his trousers and breeches and — 

And they're only around his ankles by the time Reynard has him against the wall next to the bedside table, candle rocking in its dish, hair wild around his bare, scarred shoulders, and — 

"I want to bite you everywhere," Treville says, *growls* again — 

"Is that — do I let you ravish me, cher? Am I your woman?" 

Treville blinks —

*Makes* himself think for a moment — 

Just — 

A moment to be more than his *cock* — 

"Cher... is this a difficult question?" And Reynard is smiling, teasing again — 

It feels — "I missed that smile. Please. I want to kiss you. I want you to kiss *me*." 

"I —" 

"And. Neither of us has to be the woman," Treville says, and smiles wryly. "That's... one of the benefits. I promise." 

Reynard's expression *quirks* wryly. "Mon cher. I had not intended to surrender the touch of the fairer sex *entirely* —" 

"Never," Treville says, and rests his hands on Reynard's flat belly — 

Remembers the last time he'd had his hands on his Amina-love's belly — 

Amina's big, full belly — 

His *sister*, and he has to *fix* things — but. Not right now. 

He shakes it off for the moment and *presses* his hands to Reynard's belly, to either side of the feathery, ginger trail of hair leading down and down... 

His abdominal muscles flex — 

Jump against Treville's palms — 

And Reynard pants. "Never?" 

Treville leans in slowly, slowly, and, once they *are* close enough to kiss, he says, "I've loved having you watch me fuck pretty boys while I watch you bounce the pretty girls on your cock —" 

"*Merde* —" 

"Kiss me. Make me your boy —" 

And Reynard growls and *slams* Treville against the wall, kissing him hard, kissing him hard and wet and — 

And it's not like he kisses his girls — 

And it's not like he kisses his *women* — 

And it's *exactly* like how Treville kisses his boys when he's too drunk to be gentle, when he can feel Reynard's eyes on him like brands he's not allowed to lean into, when he can feel the *ghosts* of Reynard's touches as everything he's ever wanted and *couldn't* have — 

And now he knows that this is what Reynard has wanted, that this — 

No. 

This is what Reynard has *felt* from him, what he's *known* was *his*, *all* his — 

And Treville can finally give it to him, give it *back* to him, move his hands round to Reynard's slim, strong hips and *grip* — 

Reynard gasps into his mouth — 

Treville *bites* Reynard's lower lip — 

Reynard bites *his* lower lip — 

Stares *into* him — 

And then bites him harder, and — 

And Treville doesn't — 

There's no — 

There's no *moment*. 

Just the sound of his own flat, animal *snarl* — 

Reynard's questioning moan — 

And Reynard hitting the wall *as* Treville bites his throat, *holds* his throat between his teeth, bites *harder* — 

Reynard *grunts* — 

Wheezes — 

Treville is cutting off his *air* — 

"All right back there, Basset?" 

Reynard *coughs* — 

Treville is still gripping his *hips* — 

He *must* be bruising them, and Reynard's throat, his delicious *throat* — 

Kitos grunts. "Basset, I'm *comfortable* over here. Don't make me get up —" 

Reynard *bucks* — and that. 

Lets Treville stop biting. 

And lick his lips. 

And grin up into Reynard's wide, wide eyes. "I don't know, mate. I think Reynard *likes* the idea of you getting it up..." 

And Kitos *thunders* laughter — 

And Reynard's jaw *drops* — 

"No, no, brother. Wider than that. We've all seen what Kitos has in his breeches —" 

"Basset, be *gentle* —" 

"Mm... let me think about that —" 

"Non! No gentleness! Let us — let's be *ourselves*," Reynard says, panting and grinning and — wild. 

("I am Reynard!" 

"You named yourself after your *hair*?" 

"Mais non! I *named* myself after my habit of burrowing into small, tight, dark little holes and —") 

*Wild* — 

("You want us to sneak out to go drinking on our *first* night as Musketeers?" 

"You want to stay in here and *sleep*, Treville? Did the conditioning weary you so much? Your legs, they are very short compared to mine, perhaps —"

"Right, you can just sod off until you put a bottle in my hand —") 

And Reynard's grin had been just as happy then as it is now, just as hopeful, just as *ready* to embark on something *new* — 

Fuck — 

"Brother..." 

"Cher? You are upset? What's wrong?" 

"I'm not the *same* as I was — I want different *things* —" 

"You are wilder, rougher, hungrier —" 

"I —" 

"Mon cher forgets that I have seen all of this and more from him —" 

"But *not* from your *lovers*." 

And Reynard moans, quietly — 

"I —" 

— and then he growls. "Tell me you have not loved me since the day we met, cher. Tell me that *lie*." 

"Shit — you know I *can't*, Reynard —" 

"Ça. C'est la meme *chose*." 

And Treville *stares* — 

And Kitos snorts. "He's got you there, mate. I think you'd better listen." 

"You just bloody told me to be *gentle*!" 

"Yeah, well. I was wrong," Kitos says, blithe as anything. 

Reynard spreads his hands — 

And Treville growls. "And if I told you to hold those against the wall, brother?" 

Reynard takes a *tiny* breath — and puts his hands against the wall at his hips. "Like — this?" 

Fuck — "No. Over your head," Treville says, and — 

And it's too *much* of a fantasy when Reynard moans and does it — 

Too much, too unbelievable — 

Treville has to *touch* — 

Has to stroke all over that chest, pinch the nipples he already knows aren't sensitive unless you also *twist* — 

"*Dieu* —" 

"Leave. Leave your hands —" 

"I will not move them —" 

Is it a reward when Treville twists again? Punishment for talking out of turn? 

Reynard groans like it's the former, tilting his head back, exposing his bruising throat — 

Treville bites him there *lightly* — 

Reynard *gasps* — 

Treville bites him *again*, *sucks* — 

"Mon — mon *cher*, oh — your *mouth* —" 

"Do you like it." 

"I want to feel it —" And Reynard groans and tenses, shudders — 

His scent is *chagrinned* — 

Treville frowns. "What —" 

"I want to feel it two *years* ago, I want to feel it — were you going to suck me, cher?" 

Oh — "Among other things. I..." And Treville can't keep himself from growling again, from reaching around to cup Reynard's arse, so round and firm, so — 

And Reynard makes a low and hungry and *broken* noise. 

Treville licks his lips and growls again. "You know what I want." 

"I..." 

"Say it." 

Reynard makes another hungry sound, makes another *broken* sound — "Cher —" 

"*Say* it." 

"*Fuck* — you want my arse —" 

"Be *specific*." 

Reynard *gasps* — and *pushes* his arse into Treville's hands. 

Treville snarls — 

"You want to *eat* my arse, mon cher..." 

"More — say it —" 

"You want me on my — my face and knees —" 

And kissing Reynard is — 

Is — 

They're both moaning too much to make it good, seeking and struggling to figure out precisely how to *do* this — 

Treville snarls again — 

And Reynard pants and kisses him sweet, so *sweet* — and then opens right up for him, opens and —

And *takes* — 

Lets *Treville* take — 

Treville groans and firms his grip on Reynard's arse, *shoves* him against the wall, *fucks* him against the wall — 

Reynard makes a sharp, high-pitched noise into Treville's mouth — 

His cheeks are *hot* against Treville's — 

His lips are — 

So soft — 

His beard needs to be — 

To be — 

Treville growls again and drags his beard against Reynard's, grinds his lips against the dark red hair until he feels sensitized and ready for more. 

He bites his way along Reynard's beard, nuzzles his way back down to that bruised throat — 

"S'il te plait, another kiss, another kiss —" 

And that — 

Reynard never wants many kisses from his girls — 

Not until they're already bouncing on his cock — "Reynard?" 

"Cher, your mouth, your — your hungry mouth —" 

Treville grunts — "You like it." 

Reynard laughs, cracked and *sweet*. "So many nights, cher. So many nights to watch you and ask myself — will he lick? Will he bite? Will he suck hard enough to leave a mark the pretty boy must touch with shaking fingers tomorrow, and the next day, and the next?" 

"Fuck — I want to mark you *everywhere* —" 

"And make me touch?" 

"And make you *shake*." 

Reynard laughs more, licks his teeth, swivels his hips — 

Treville snarls and grips his arse *harder* — 

"Ah, oui, *oui*, but — already I shake, cher — I — I'm so hard —"

Kissing him is necessary, painfully necessary, and finishing the process of stripping them both is more so — 

Grinding themselves together, skin and scars — 

Hair and fur — 

Cock and *sheathed* cock, and Reynard gasps into Treville's mouth, but he doesn't stop kissing, he — 

And when Treville catches himself pushing two fingers down and down into Reynard's cleft, he doesn't stop himself, doesn't stop the kiss, doesn't stop *anything* — 

Reynard writhes — 

Groans — 

Breaks the kiss — "Please — *please*!" 

And Kitos pants, once. "Whatever you're doing, Basset... I think you'd probably better keep it up." 

And that... is an invitation Treville hadn't expected — a part of him *had* honestly expected Kitos to *doze*, the way he has when they've wound up in the same room while Treville was making use of some likely boy in a brothel after Kitos had already finished with his woman-of-the-moment — 

("Reynard's girl is making too much noise. You're much less competent. 's soothing.") 

But this — 

This isn't that. 

Treville rubs at Reynard's hole with his callused fingers again — 

Reynard groans and sweats and *moves* for him, groans *more*, pushing back against those fingers — 

"Yeah... yeah, like that, Basset..." 

And there's a moment when Treville *just* wants to ask Kitos what *he* wants — it would be just the sort of arsehole move they're *all* likely to make, and thus what Reynard had claimed to *want* — but. 

"Reynard..." 

And Reynard moans and looks up, glassy-eyed and sweaty, hard, *needy* — 

"Reynard, stay with me for a moment —" 

But all he does is grin, and turn to where Kitos has *obviously* made a nest — "Mon frère, is there room for us over there?" 

Kitos booms laughter. "Would I ever *not* make room for you two pricks?" 

"*Dripping* pricks —" 

"*Doggy* pricks! Well, one of them, anyway," Kitos says, and pants. "Come over. Let me. Let me see."

And there's an ache inside that is *specific* to Kitos, that — "Just... see, brother?" And Treville kicks their breeches out of the way —

Kitos takes a shuddering breath. "For... for now."

Treville — can't help but growl for that, and *grip* Reynard by the hip as they both walk to the nest Kitos has made — 

And Kitos is staring at them — 

Seeing everything, seeing — 

And it *shouldn't* be different or strange for Kitos to see them naked, or even naked and *hard*, but — 

But Kitos is stripped down to his *loosened* breeches — 

*Kitos* is hard — 

Nodding at them both — 

And when Treville looks to Reynard — 

Reynard laughs, wild and bright and teasing. "Which one of us do you intend to put in the middle, cher? Which of us gets to have Kitos roll right over on top of him and —" 

"Shit, Reynard, shut your mouth and get *over* here," Kitos says, sounding strained and amused and — needy. 

Hungry — 

Treville growls and kisses Reynard again, kisses him *while* shoving him back and back and —

And Kitos *yanks* Reynard down out of his arms — 

Reynard laughs wildly again and grunts and *wheezes* — "Mon frère, you will keep me warm all this winter, no?" 

"Every fucking night," Kitos says, and, "I can't believe I'm —" 

And then Kitos kisses Reynard deeply, sweetly, so — 

So *lovingly* — 

Reynard *shakes* — 

Flails out with the arm Kitos isn't crushing — 

Reaches — 

Reaches for him. 

Treville drops to his knees — and *immediately* gets yanked into a three-way kiss that — 

That — 

Treville coughs out a growl — 

A sob — 

Another *growl*, and he kisses them both, kisses his brothers, kisses them — 

Kitos rumbles — "Not so *hard*, Basset —" 

"*Yes*, so hard, so — I've *wanted* —" 

Kitos grunts. "Have you, now," Kitos says, and then *shoves* Reynard *flat* to the mattresses and *grinds* his incredible beard against Reynard's whole *face* — 

"Dieu — mon *Dieu* —" 

Treville growls. "I want that." 

Kitos pulls back and licks his pink lips. "Which part?" 

"All of it. Everything —" 

And then Kitos *yanks* Treville close — 

Yanks Treville *over* Reynard — and *grinds* their faces together — 

Just — 

Hot and scratchy and Kitos, *Kitos* — 

Treville growls and goes for another kiss, and another — 

And those are Reynard's long, hard fingers at the back of his neck, tugging so gently, so *gently*, and Treville wants to warn him that that's a goad, that the more gentle you *are* with him when he's this hungry, this — 

But. 

Reynard knows. 

Reynard has *seen* — 

Treville *bites* Kitos because he can't stop himself — 

Kitos *grunts* — and laughs, pulling back — 

And smacking Treville's arse *hard* — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"'m not your *boy*, Basset..." 

"I — I —" 

"But I think Reynard wants to be..." 

And Reynard looks up at him — 

Licks his sharp *teeth* again — 

Kitos cups and *grips* Treville's arse — 

"Oh — fuck, Kitos —" 

"This, Basset?" And Kitos *shoves* Treville down and *makes* him grind against Reynard — 

Grind — 

So *hard* — 

Reynard gasps and grips the back of Treville's *neck* — 

Arches up — 

Tilts his head back — 

"Think he's inviting you to have another go at his throat," Kitos says, and *kisses* Treville's ear — 

Treville *bucks* — 

As much as he *can* with Kitos grinding him *down* — 

"Yeah, Basset? You like that?" And Kitos kisses his ear again, licks it — 

Treville gasps, bucks again — "It's you, it's — it's *you* —" 

Kitos *growls* and moves round behind Treville — "Then I'll touch you *exactly* the way I want to —" 

"Oh — *fuck*, Kitos —" 

"— and you'll let me see you touching Reynard —" 

"Please, *please* —" 

"— before he loses his mind any *more* than he already has —" 

And there's no way not to shove one hand into Reynard's hair and *cup* his throat with the other — 

Reynard *focuses* on him immediately — 

He has beard-burn where he isn't stubbled, and some of the places where he *is* — 

His lips — 

His *lips* —

"Mon cher, stop holding *back* —" 

"Do you *mean* —" 

"I've meant *everything* I've *ever* said to you... except one thing. One thing," Reynard says, panting, licking his swollen lips — 

So *pink* — 

And Treville is growling and — 

And fucking against him — 

Reynard's jaw drops — 

His lashes flutter — 

Treville feels his sheath peeling back, and it's *nothing* like what it had been like for the past thirteen years of being a functional male with a foreskin, it's — 

It's a *heavy* feeling, *hard* — 

Treville is *throbbing* — 

He — 

He can't keep from *yanking* Reynard's hair — 

Reynard gasps and bares his throat even *more* — 

And Treville darts in, bites, bites again — 

Again and again — 

Reynard shouts — 

Curses — 

Pushes his fingers into Treville's hair and *grips* — 

And Treville throbs more, feels his cock *leak* — 

It feels like it's leaking so *much*, like — 

No, it doesn't feel like spending, but — 

But he has to grind, and lick, and move down and down and — 

Bite — 

Bite and *suck* Reynard's pretty pink nipples — 

"Cher — mon *cher* —" 

And he wants to stop, wants to ask Reynard if he *likes* it, wants to make him talk about *everything*, but there's a soft fold of skin right above Reynard's navel — 

He has to bite it — 

"*Yes* — ohn — *please* —" 

He has to suck it, worry it with too-human teeth and leave a massive *bruise* — 

"I will touch this tomorrow, I will press against it and know you love me, you *love* me —" 

"*Toujours*," Treville *growls*, and swallows Reynard's *cock* — 

Reynard *shouts* — 

Treville blushes and swallows and swallows and — 

And groans in his chest, because he can taste himself on Reynard's cock, because he can taste them together, because — 

And then he coughs, nearly coughs Reynard *out*, because Kitos *spreads* him — 

"All right, Basset...?" 

Treville looks *up* — 

Reynard is groaning and bucking and hasn't noticed — 

And — 

"We don't. We don't have to —" 

Treville reaches back and *helps* Kitos spread him — 

"Ah, *fuck*, brother —" And Kitos's big hands are shaking on his hips — 

Treville's own hands are shaking on his arse and *Reynard's* hip — he wants more. 

He wants — 

And he already knows he can *have*, because it's Kitos, giant, perfect, *massive* Kitos, who has to go everywhere he plans on getting his ashes hauled with a little pomade — 

Or more than a little... 

Treville bobs his head on Reynard's cock once — 

Again and again and — 

And, no, he won't ask for the pomade for himself, yet, he won't — 

He *can't*, not with Reynard *gripping* him by the head and — 

"Cher, mon cher, n'arrete pas! N'arrete *pas*!" 

He *won't*, and it's perfect to rub at Reynard's hole with sweat-slick fingers, to rub and rub and *not* push *in* — 

"*Merde*, you *tease* —" 

— even while Kitos pants behind him and *does* push in, just — 

Ah, fuck, fuck, he hasn't done this in *years* —

Not since he was a *boy* — 

But Kitos is *opening* him so *slowly* — 

"Basset — oh, brother, you're so *tight*..." 

And Reynard *gasps* — 

And *looks* at Treville — 

Into him so — 

Just as deep as Kitos's finger, deeper and deeper, and Reynard is fucking his *throat*, and Kitos is pulling out — 

"Oh, easy —" 

"Shh, shh, cher —" 

And Treville realizes that he's groaning, begging for more, so much more — and getting it when Kitos pushes back in with more pomade, so thick, so — 

So *deep* —

"Our Kitos, he is fucking *you*, cher?" 

And Treville nods, he nods, but mostly he bobs his head on Reynard's gorgeous cock, takes every *inch* of it — 

"And I can have this thing?"

And a part of Treville is only twenty-one on a grassy hillside, full of sweet wine and *hope* — 

"I think..." And Kitos growls and knuckles *up* — 

Treville bucks at nothing and mouths and licks and swallows and needs and — 

Pushes — 

In — 

And Reynard screams like a wildcat — 

Just for the *tips* of two fingers — 

His cock is jerking and *spasming* in Treville's throat — 

Treville swallows him *deep* — 

Kitos knuckles against Treville's pleasure-button again — 

Treville groans in his *chest* — 

Reynard *bucks* — 

And shouts — 

And shudders and spurts and spurts and *spurts*, and for a moment Treville is shaking too hard to swallow, aching — 

He can't — 

He *can't* — 

But then Reynard pulls him *in* — 

So *hard* — 

Reynard *crushes* Treville against himself, and his spend, his *spend* is leaking out of Treville's mouth, dripping onto his crotch — 

They jerk *together* — 

"Shh, easy, easy," Kitos says, and *twists* his finger — 

Treville groans, slurps, groans more — 

Reynard *spurts* more, clenches around Treville's fingertips — 

It's all he can do not to push *deep* — 

He has to *breathe* — 

And then Reynard claws at his scalp and he doesn't want to, doesn't ever — 

"Cher — *fuck* —" Reynard *pushes* him — 

No, no — 

"S'il te plait, I want more, different —" And then Reynard laughs wildly again — "I want *everything*, and you — please let me feel your mouth on my *hole*!" 

Treville *grunts* around Reynard's cock — 

Black flowers *bloom* — no, no, he pushes back — 

Reynard is snickering like a *boy* as he *scoots* back — 

Kitos is panting like a *bellows* — 

"Ah, oui, Kitos? His arse is that sweet?" 

"I'd invite you back here if I weren't a greedy *pig*," Kitos says, and twists his finger again — 

Treville groans again, grips at the rough, military-issue blankets, lets his head hang between his arms for just a *moment* — 

"Oh, non, non, you are *no* pig. You are our *boar*, wild and mean and wonderfully shaggy —" 

Kitos snorts — 

"— and so long as you leave mon cher capable of utterly destroying me with his mouth — the way he has been doing with boy after boy after *boy* —" 

"So we *are* definitely going to *tell* each other when we want to touch each other from now on?" 

Reynard is silent for a moment — but *only* for a moment before he snickers more. "Do you *see* what happens when I tell the truth, frère?" 

"He sucks your *prick*." 

"*Oui*. And he rubs my hole so... so... *Dieu*, that was — cher, are you —" 

"Maybe," Kitos says, "we should give him..." And he shoves his finger in *hard* — 

Treville *barks* — 

"Give him a little time..." 

Reynard moans. "And look at his cock!" 

"I know —" 

"So *red* —" 

"You should suck it," Kitos says, and pulls out slowly, *partially* — 

Treville *groans* — 

Reynard *pants* —

Kitos *rubs* at Treville's hole with a second finger — 

"Fuck — fuck, *yes*," Treville says, and he's panting, too, needing, wanting everything he can have, every possible — 

And then Reynard is pushing him *up* onto his knees — 

And Kitos has his powerful arm wrapped around Treville's chest — 

And Treville knows he'd fall *over* without it, because Reynard is *gripping* Treville's cock — 

So tight — 

So hot so hard so *tight* — 

Treville is snarling and groaning and tossing his *head* — 

"Oh, cher, cher, just this?" 

"I — am more sensitive —" 

And Reynard *gasps* — 

And Kitos booms a *dirty* laugh. "There's a benefit, hey? All your soft little boys with their soft little hands can make you feel —" 

"*Non*," Reynard says, and squeezes *hard* again — 

"*Please* —" 

"This is *mine*," he says, and drops, and *sucks* — 

Treville *shouts* — 

Reynard sucks the *head* — 

Just the *head* — 

And Kitos growls and licks Treville's ear. "Is it perfect, Basset? Is it everything you've ever —" 

"Both — *both* of you — *please*!" 

And Kitos shudders hard behind him, *quakes* — "Brother, I couldn't stop if I wanted to..." 

"Don't — *don't* —" 

"Open up for me —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"For — but I don't know if I can actually *fuck* you, Basset —" 

And Treville laughs hard *as* his arse flexes open — 

As Kitos groans and starts to push with both fingers — 

"Let's *try*." 

But then Reynard slurps his way *off* — 

Treville grunts and *bucks* into his too-tight fist, tries to get back to that *mouth* — 

Reynard licks his lips and hums. "Let us not forget —" 

"That you're a greedy bastard?" And Kitos booms laughter again — 

"That I am a man with very powerful *needs* —" 

"Get back down there and suck that doggy prick, you arse," Kitos says, laughing all the while — 

Completely oblivious to the way it makes Treville's eyes roll up — 

"Oh, cher, cher — do you want to taste your doggy cock in my mouth?" 

Treville opens his mouth to *beg*, but it comes out crooned, desperate, his knot is *flexing* — 

"Oh — *merde* — I felt —" And Reynard leans in and kisses him, kisses him so *hard* — 

Treville *shoves* his tongue *in* — 

And groans — 

And croons — 

And laps like the dog he is, laps and tastes and needs, needs so much more, there's — 

"Let me *get* more, cher, let me... mm. Let me coat my *mouth* —" 

Treville *bucks* again — 

Kitos growls and pushes harder, harder — 

His fingers *pop* in — 

Treville *howls* — 

Reynard gasps and mutters and drops and slurps, sucks, takes *more* — 

Treville can't *see* — 

"All right, Basset...?" 

"I — I —" Treville howls again — 

Again — 

*Again*, and Treville knows that Kitos is still talking, knows that Reynard is *slurring* around Treville's *cock* — 

Treville's twitching, spasming, needy — 

Please suck, please — 

"Is that what you need, Basset? Is that what'll make you spend all over Reynard's pretty face?" 

"Oh — mon Dieu, that is — he almost never —" Reynard groans and bobs *his* head on Treville's cock — 

Treville *shouts*, grips at Kitos's massive arm, holds tight, holds *tight* — 

And then Reynard takes another fraction of an inch and sucks — 

So hard — 

So *hard*, and Treville is shuddering, trying to force himself down Reynard's throat, trying to fuck, trying to *fuck* — 

But Reynard has him by his knot, has his big, hard hand wrapped tight around it — 

Treville shouts again — 

And then Reynard starts *working* the knot, starts — 

Starts squeezing and massaging and he's looking up at Treville the entire time, smiling wickedly with his eyes and —

And Treville groans and bucks and bucks and *bucks* — 

Reynard sucks so *hard*, hollowing his cheeks — 

Winking — 

Treville can't — 

And then Kitos licks Treville's ear and — "Here it comes, Basset..." 

Oh — 

"*Fuck*," Treville says, stiffening and arching and aching and *trembling*, because Kitos is fucking him with both fingers, fucking him so — 

So *fast* — 

Making him *work* between his fingers and Reynard's — 

Reynard's *mouth* — 

Reynard's hot, wet, *tight* — 

So *tight* — 

And Kitos laughs and *crooks* — 

Treville *yells* — 

"— not as tight as you —" 

"Fuck —" 

"— spend my brains out as soon as I shove in —" 

Treville clenches and — 

"No, no, don't you tighten up on me now, Basset, not now that I've worked you open so good — Reynard, help me —" 

Reynard slurps his way — 

All the way *off* — 

Treville gasps and — 

"*There* we are," Kitos says, and fucks him — hard — 

Hard and fast and harder than that — 

Treville *howls* — 

He can't — 

He — 

"Ah, fuck, he is *close* —" And Reynard *drops*, sucking hard, sucking sweet, *lapping* at the head like — 

And Treville has just enough time to realize that he'd been lapping at the head of Reynard's cock just that way — 

That his tongue is curling with the need to do it again and again and — 

And then Kitos starts *teasing* Treville with the *knuckle* of his third finger and — 

Treville howls as his vision *blanks* — 

Blanks — 

And then Kitos is *forcing* him to look *down* — at Reynard aiming Treville's spurting cock at his open mouth and his face — 

His beautiful face — 

All *over* his face — 

Treville tries to speak and just winds up *howling* again — 

Reynard takes him back *in*, working his knot so hard, trying for more, obviously trying for *more* — 

Kitos is *growling* — "I need — fuck — *fuck*, no, I can't wait," he says, pulling *out* —

"*No* —" 

"Easy, brother, easy, I just need to get you a little more open *right* — *now*," he says, and immediately starts pushing in with three —

His fingers are *heavily* slick with pomade — 

And Treville feels something rising in him even as he spurts more, more — 

Feels something rising and reaching and — 

Porthos — 

(What the sodding — *fuck* —) 

And now Treville knows Aramis's taste, knows his spend, his sweat, his blood, so powerful, and he can — 

Reach — 

Further — 

(Don't you sodding *dare*!) 

And something — *Porthos* — smacks him *down* — 

Treville *yelps* — 

Spends *more* — 

And *drops* back into his body from — not from a height. From — the stables.

He gasps and blinks and — 

And Reynard is *gripping* his face — and *his* face is messy and gorgeous and *perfect* — 

Treville growls and tries to break free of Kitos's *grip* on him — 

"Non, cher, stay still and say what *happened* —" 

Treville growls more — "Later. Let me lick you clean now, let me lick you *everywhere* you're dirty..." 

Reynard's jaw drops — 

"Right, you've broken our poor brother, Basset, so it's up to me to show some military-like discipline here," Kitos says, and *twists* his three massive fingers inside — 

Treville *barks* again — "*Kitos* —" 

"Are you saying no?" 

"*Fuck*, no, I want more, I want —" 

"Then tell us what the bloody buggering fuck just *happened*, you arse! You slumped over like you'd *fainted*." 

"I. Oh." 

"Yes, *oh*, you —" 

"One — give me a moment —" 

"Fine, whatever, but remember that my cock is getting *peevish* back here —" 

Treville *coughs* — and... reaches, tentatively — 

And gets nothing. 

Or. 

Not nothing. He gets the sense of his power, his self, snapping back in on itself. 

He reaches toward where he'd carefully set the dog idol on one of the bedside tables — 

The answering rush makes him flex open — 

He can *feel* Kitos growling more than hear it — 

Smell Kitos's impatience, Reynard's hunger, his own rising and rising and *rising* power — 

And, this time when he reaches — 

(What *is* it?) 

Porthos... 

(*What*?) 

How familiar are you with this kind of communication? 

(I'm sodding *not*, but I know what *you* feel like. I — I know it like my own *skin*, and I'm *deeply* angry, because —) 

The older Treville didn't tell you about this? 

(What do *you* bloody think?) 

I won't — hide this. When I get back, and get you and my Amina-love situated —

(Love — what — no. You'll tell?) 

Yes. I. Amina would insist on it anyway, but I would — I would never hide something — 

(You sodding *did* — but. That wasn't you. Sorry, I — sorry —) 

No — 

(*No*, it's not your sodding fault, and I'm not going to treat you that way — but don't do anything weird to *Aramis*.) 

No, I won't, that was — 

(You lost control. I felt it. I felt you sodding *spending* — did you feel me?) And Porthos is *grinning* — 

Treville can feel *that* — 

(You'd be grinning, too, mate...) 

I... *might* have been a little distracted... 

(And maybe you will be again? I can *feel* that you're still bloody hard.) 

They're... my brothers.

(Yeah. I know *exactly* how that works.) 

Treville shivers. Yes, you do. 

(Mm. Go back to them, Treville. I... we need to spend more time speaking where we're looking each other in the *eye* —) 

And... touching?

And Porthos doesn't say anything — 

And *shutters* himself a little, hides himself *naturally* — but. 

He's not very good at that. 

Treville can feel exactly how much that question had made him uncomfortable and exactly how much it *hadn't*. 

(You're — who you are.) 

That — wasn't honest. 

Porthos snorts. (No, it wasn't. But it wasn't *completely* dishonest, either, because you're Treville, and that means I can't help relaxing all over for you, and because you're *not* the *right* Treville, and that means I can't help tensing up all over *because* of you —) 

I understand — 

(No, you don't, because *I* don't, and I can *feel* that that's how this — this bond between us works now. But you want to make it easy for me.) 

Always.

(Yeah. Don't do that. Don't ever make anything easy, Treville. Just... be yourself.) 

And that — 

Treville isn't sure if that's *possible* — 

He's *reasonably* sure it's a terrible *idea* — 

(We'll make it work. Go on. Your brothers are probably worrying.) 

They're yours, too, Porthos. The bond — 

(Ohh... fuck, is that ever a conversation we're having in person. Go. Let me bury my face in Aramis's hair and pretend things are simple for a few hours.) And Porthos gives Treville the *scents* of that hair — 

Thank you. For — everything.

(Thank *you* for not being a complete berk.) 

Treville laughs as he pulls back. I do occasionally put the effort in... 

And he opens his eyes to the sound/feel/scents of Porthos's fading laughter — 

And the sight of Reynard *about* to wipe his face with the back of his hand — Treville catches his wrist — 

"*Merde*, cher, *warn* me —" 

"*Never*," Treville says, yanking Reynard close and licking him clean, licking him dirty, licking him all over his *face* — 

"I've decided to be charitable and allow this," Kitos says, and *twists* his fingers again — 

Treville groans into Reynard's mouth — 

Bites his lip — 

Groans again — 

"Since our dear fox-face was cleaning up without permission," Kitos says, and starts to *thrust* again — 

Again — 

"And that won't do..." 

And every thrust is hard, every thrust is *stretching* and hard, and — 

"Mon cher, your tongue is trembling on my *cheek*..."

"*That's* filthy. Maybe you should suck it for him, Reynard. Get it nice and *stiff*." 

Reynard snickers and *licks* Treville's tongue — 

Tickles it — 

Sucks Treville's spend off it and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him so — 

Reynard is backing away as he kisses, as he laughs — 

Treville crawls to follow — 

"Oi! Are you pulling my Basset-shaped fucktoy away from me?" 

"On the contrary, mon verrat —" 

"I should make *you* ride my tusks —"

Reynard *coughs* a laugh — "Did you have more than *one*, frère?" 

Treville growls and winds Reynard's long hair around his fist. "At this point, I'd take both at once and thank him for the privilege —" 

Kitos grunts and *shoves* in with his fingers — 

Treville barks and pants and — kisses Reynard one more time, just once, gripping that long, thick hair and making Reynard take it, take every thrust of his tongue, every nip, every *bite* — 

Reynard moans and *gives* Treville his mouth — 

His lips are so *soft* — 

His mouth is so *open* — 

And Treville knows what he wants more. He pulls back, shaking his hand free — 

"Non, wait —" 

"Turn around." 

"Oh — *merde* — *fuck* —" And Reynard laughs and does it immediately, spreading his knees, spreading his *arse* with one hand — "Like this?" 

Treville *tries* to say yes, but it comes out growled as he lunges — 

And gets *caught*, because Kitos is a *bastard*, holding Treville by the neck and *wheezing* laughter — "Just joking, just joking — fuck, Basset, you practically *pounced* —" 

"And. I'm going. To do it again —" 

"As soon as I let you?" 

Treville growls — "*Yes* —" 

Kitos laughs *evilly*. "Why don't you just take a good look — and *whiff* — of that arse for a minute while I do *this*," he says, *gripping* the back of Treville's neck and fucking against his pleasure-button hard and fast — 

So — 

So *brutally* — 

Treville groans — 

Drops his head *helplessly* — 

"*That's* right, Basset. You just have to get a little more open..." 

Treville *flexes* open — 

He feels sore, swollen, tingling and aching and loose and *sloppy* with pomade all at once — 

So good — 

So — 

*Why* hasn't he given himself this? 

*Why* has he needed to just — shove *every* possible lover down to their *knees* — 

"You were waiting for *us*," Kitos says, and Treville doesn't know if he's reaching for his brothers, if he's gripping them *that* way or if he's just losing all control again, all — 

Everything — 

"Fuck, *now*," Kitos says, cupping the back of Treville's head and *shoving* it at Reynard's perfect arse, and Treville's hands are shaking, Treville's whole *body* is shaking, but spreading him wide is the only thing he *can* do — 

"*Oui* — *oui* —" 

And growling and nuzzling his way *in* — 

"Ah, *fuck*, cher!" 

Licking and lapping — 

Oh, Reynard — 

Oh, his *Reynard* — 

He needs more, he needs his sweat, his musk — 

He shoves his tongue *in* — 

Reynard *screams*, brief and *loud* — 

And Kitos growls. "Remind me to never try to have a snooze while you're doing *that*, Basset," he says, and just keeps *fucking* him with his fingers — 

"Nuh — *nuh*!" 

And Treville kisses his Reynard, kisses his sweet-musky arse and nuzzles it, drags his softer beard — 

Reynard screams *again* — 

"*Fuck* — I —" And Kitos snarls and crooks his fingers — 

Treville *shouts* into Reynard's arse, sprays it with spit, grips Reynard tighter when he jerks and licks it up, licks it all up, holds him tight and *cleans* him — 

"Dieu — mon Dieu! S'il te — *fuck*!" 

And Kitos crooks again — 

Crooks *again*, and Treville shoves his tongue in and *howls* into Reynard's arse — 

Reynard jitters and shakes, trembles on his knees — 

Clenches around his tongue and howls *himself* when Treville *sucks* at the rim of his hole — 

Nibbles and sucks *hard* — 

And Kitos is pulling out. 

He — 

"You should see our pretty boy, Basset. You..." Kitos growls and pulls out slow and steady. "You've got him tossing his head like a restive *horse*... do you want to ride?" 

Treville slurs 'yes' into Reynard's hole, slurs it in again and again as Reynard clenches and quivers and drips Treville's own spit — 

Treville *slurps* — 

Kisses and pulls back and *bites* those round, firm cheeks, dreams of spanking them, splitting them with his cock — 

With the cock he had *before* the spells — 

With the cock he has *now*, and the knot would have to be forced in — 

In, *in* like his tongue, in and in and — 

Reynard *sobs*, screams *again* — 

Kitos's fingers are all the way *out* — "Arse *up*, Basset!" 

And Treville feels himself flush, feels himself flex and — and *obey*, immediately — 

"*Fuck* — if you arseholes fuck this up — if I fuck this up — if we fuck this up I'm going to bludgeon us all to *death*," Kitos says, and the head of his cock is — 

Big. 

Hot and thick and slick and — 

And pushing, immediately pushing, no hesitation, no — 

And why should he? 

Why — fuck, never hesitate, never *hesitate*, Treville sends, reaches, *pushes* — 

And Kitos groans *desperately* — "No — no *hesitating*," he says, and pushes harder, *faster* — 

Treville *sobs* into Reynard's arse — 

Kisses it — 

Kisses that hole over and *over*, because he can't manage more finesse than that, not with Kitos opening him, forcing him *open* — 

"You — you'll do the same to Reynard, Basset..." 

Treville *grunts* — 

Reynard moans and *clenches* against Treville's lips like a kiss of his own — 

Treville licks and licks and — 

"You'll give him — fuck, *all* of your doggy prick —" 

"*Dieu* — oui, oui, *all* of it!" 

"You see, he wants it —" 

Treville groans and *sucks* that hole — 

Reynard *shouts* — 

"You see he — but you'll give him your *knot*, too, Basset," Kitos says, and rocks *in* another *inch* — 

Treville *grunts* — 

Shoves his tongue in — 

In and in and — 

And he has to *drop* Reynard, put him down, put them both *down*, spread him wider, lick the tight and pink and shiny skin while Kitos lifts Treville's own arse even *higher* —

"You'll *force* that knot in. In. *Right* into that tight, virginal arse —" 

Reynard sobs and clenches around Treville's tongue — 

Fucks against the blankets — 

Shudders and clenches *tighter* — 

Treville doesn't stop *fucking* him — 

And Kitos rocks in another —

Another fucking *inch* — 

Treville *gasps* — 

"You'll *make* him take you, Basset..." 

Treville says yes, begs yes, *sends* yes — 

Reynard flexes *open* — 

Kitos pulls out and *shoves* in — 

Yes — 

And Kitos does it again — 

*Yes* — 

Oh, God, again, and Treville can't see, can't — 

But he can feel the yes, all of the yes, the *yes*, and the way Reynard is open the way he's open, the way *Kitos* is open and groaning for it, quivering inside even as he *pounds* Treville, makes them — 

Makes all of them *shake* — 

And Treville sucks his own fingers, gets two of them wet and pushes them *into* Reynard's arse — 

Reynard sobs and sobs and — 

Yes, that's yes, too, it's yes, he can feel —

They can all *feel* — 

And Treville shoves his tongue in next to those —

Fingers — 

Reynard screams and clenches tight, so *tight*, and there's a moment when Treville realizes that the sweat he feels at the small of his back, that the flexing in his belly and cock, that the *soreness* in his *arse* — 

It's all Reynard's, it's *Reynard's*, and it's *his* spend that he's about to — 

Kitos *howls*, pounding *in* and *in* and *in*, spurting *deep* — 

Except that that's Treville's own arse he can feel, stretched around his cock as he — 

As he slams *in* — 

As he slams *in*, and it's so tight, he's so *tight*, and the taste of Reynard on his lips is — 

But — 

Who — 

And Reynard is groaning hungrily, *shaking* as he takes his brother's cock and buries his face in the arse of — 

No — 

And Kitos spreads his legs wide, wide, and he's never saying no to anything again, not anything sexual, not with his brothers, and please, push those fingers *deeper* — 

Wait, that's — 

And Treville shoves in, fucks harder, *harder*, and spending isn't enough, howling his pleasure isn't enough, sharing isn't — 

(Toujours pas assez) 

No, it isn't, forever could never be enough, not for this, not for *this*, and, Treville spends again, *spurts* — 

And something — melts, not breaks. 

It — 

He collapses on his face, with his cheek pressed to Reynard's *arsecheek* — 

Kitos is *covering* him, a hot and hairy and wonderful *blanket* — 

Kitos is *filling* him — 

Kitos is... groaning like he's dying. 

Reynard isn't. 

Reynard is cursing with increasing levels of filth and blasphemy. 

It — "Kitos, Reynard —" 

"What the buggering fuck just *happened*?" 

"I —" 

"I would also like to know what the buggering fuck just — I think I was *you* for a moment, cher! And also Kitos!" 

"And I was *Reynard* and you —" 

"*We*," Treville says, "were all each other." 

"Right, but —" 

"*Why*?" And Reynard — sadly — is turning over onto his back. "What happened? What — did you do something?" 

"Not on purpose," Treville says, and pushes up a little — 

A very little; Kitos weighs a *ton* — 

And then Kitos pushes up and *hauls* Treville *with* him — 

"Oh, fuck —" 

"All right, Basset?" 

"Yes —" 

Kitos cuffs him — 

"*Ow* —" 

Reynard slaps him — 

"Hey —" 

"You will *warn* us when you do — whatever you did," Reynard says, and frowns. "I believe it feels very *permanent*, what he did." 

"Whatever it sodding — what *was* it?" 

And... Treville *wants* to say that he doesn't know. 

He wants to say that — 

"Oh, fucking hell, Basset, we can *hear* you thinking about lying to us now!" 

Treville's jaw drops — 

And Reynard *looks* at him. With *both* eyebrows up. 

And that — "Well... there's part of your answer —" 

"What's the *rest*, you arse?" And Kitos *shakes* him like a *puppy*, which — 

"Could you — could you never bloody do that again while your *cock* is still inside me?" 

Kitos pretends to scowl at him. "I don't know, mate. It feels awfully good on this end." 

Reynard snickers. "Cher. Just admit that we are very, very close now, oui? Perhaps, in some ways, as close as you are to your *boy*." 

Treville *blinks* — 

And Kitos grunts. "Well, considering the fact that I can tell that he's sleeping now —" 

"After having spent *twice* with his Aramis —" 

"And having *tasted* that spend —" 

"Oh... fuck," Treville says, and stares at nothing. 

"Buck up, mate," Kitos says, and wraps an arm around Treville's chest — 

"Ah, oui, cher. Children, they need *big*, *strong* families."


	6. Every day for the rest of my life.

"So, are we sure about this?" And Porthos tucks the bundle of blankets and sheets further under his arm as they slip away from the barracks. 

"Beautiful Porthos," Aramis says, and focuses on keeping the bottles in good trim, "when are we sure about *anything*?" 

Porthos snorts good-naturedly — loosening something inside Aramis that had been getting wound tighter and tighter since Athos's news — and leads them toward the stables. 

It's a terrible hiding-place — everyone at the garrison knows that Porthos finds the stables relaxing — but, as of now, they have no one to hide from. 

Treville is a twenty-three-year-old with roughly coeval brothers who are *occasionally* that mature. 

*Their* Treville is... where? 

Taking the twenty-three-year-old's place? 

Righting the wrongs of the past? 

Perhaps while catching up with Athos's father? 

*Any* Treville given the opportunity to change the horrors of the past would *have* to do just that — 

And Porthos kisses his *ear* — "Where'd you go, pet?" 

Nowhere you could not yank me *bodily* from by calling me *that* — "I. I was thinking of Treville. Our Treville," Aramis says, and looks around at the clean, sweet-hay-smelling stall Porthos has made a nest for them in with the sheets and blankets they'd taken — 

Aramis does *not* let himself think of Isabellele — 

He does not — 

"Right, *something* else is wrong here —" 

"No —" 

"*Yes*," Porthos says, drawing the word out as if Aramis is a child deliberately missing a lesson — and then he smiles ruefully and cups Aramis's chin. "C'mon, tell me. Let me start the process of making it good for us, pet." 

Shit — 

Porthos's expression *quirks* — "Like I do, a little, every time I call you that. *Pet*." 

And that — Aramis laughs — 

And steps *into* Porthos — 

"Oh, *that's* nice —" And Porthos wraps his arms around him. 

"So is this." 

"Yeah?" 

Aramis turns and kisses Porthos's cheek. "Yes." 

"Mm. So tell me how I make it nicer, eh?" 

"No, you —" 

"Shh. Don't tell me it's perfect, or it's fine, or anything else like that," Porthos says, and rests his hands on Aramis's hips before squeezing firmly and pulling back enough that they can meet each other's eyes. "Just tell me — if you *can't* tell me what got you twitched in the first place — what I do to make it right." And Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

He... Aramis swallows. "I think." 

"Yeah?" 

"I think you'll be a very good Master," Aramis says, and drops his head. 

Porthos inhales sharply — and tightens his grip on Aramis's hips. "I want to be. I want to be your Master... more than anything." 

"Please —" 

"Now?" 

"Please, now." 

Porthos growls and kisses the top of Aramis's head. "All right, pet. You're mine." 

"Yes." 

"You're *all* mine." 

"Please, yes —" 

"Everything you do, everything you say, everything you *are* — is mine." 

Aramis shivers — 

They both *pant* — 

"Please. Please, *yes*, Master —" 

"Good pet. Good, good pet." 

"I — no — I'm not —" 

"Shh. Don't you know I'll make you good?" 

"Oh — fuck."

"Mm?" And Porthos keeps cupping Aramis's hip with one hand and brings the other to his hair. *Strokes* Aramis's hair back from his face — 

Pets his hair and his face — 

His mouth — "You know I can make you good, don't you?" And he just leaves his thumb there — 

Right on Aramis's lower lip — 

Aramis moans low. "Yes, Master," he says, and kisses Porthos's thumb — 

"Good pet. Lick it." 

"Yes, Master," he says, and obeys — 

"Good, again, just like a little... but I suppose you're more of a cat than a dog. Aren't you." 

Aramis takes several *small* licks at Porthos's thumb, and then says: "I am whatever my Master would have of me." And then he licks more — 

And more — 

And listens to Porthos breathe, ragged and deep. 

"Are you the kind of pet who has preferences, the kind of pet who has preferences *sometimes*, or the kind of pet who has their *Master's* preferences *all* the time?" But Porthos doesn't let Aramis *answer*. He — 

He pushes his thumb *deep* — 

He forces Aramis to look *up* — "You're so sodding gorgeous. Think about your answer. And think about this: You're allowed to change your mind, at any time, as *many* times as you need." 

Aramis starts to shake his head — 

"Shh. That's my choice, not yours." 

Oh. Oh...

And Porthos's smile is warm and gentle. "There you are. Keep thinking." 

Aramis nods and closes his eyes.

"That helps?" 

Aramis nods and suckles Porthos's thumb. 

"Mm. I'll keep *that* in mind, pet." 

And Aramis can hear the promise in Porthos's voice, the hunger, the *desire*, the... 

The *fact* that this is a desire of long standing, that there have been fantasies, dreams, wishes, hopes, *plans* — 

Aramis *moans* around Porthos's thumb — 

Opens his eyes and *pleads* — 

"Yeah, pet? You need to talk to me now?" 

Aramis shudders and — aches, all over. His nipples are chafing against his shirt. His cock is heavy and *hard*. He nods. 

"All right," Porthos says, and tugs his slick thumb free — and sucks it himself — 

Aramis *grunts* — 

Stares — 

And Porthos pulls his thumb out of his mouth and drags it over Aramis's chin. "Tell me. Tell me what you need to tell me." 

And for a moment, the words — countless words, on countless *topics* — crowd at the back of Aramis's throat and *demand* that he — 

But Porthos raises his eyebrows — 

"Your preferences," Aramis almost *blurts*. "Your — please, Master. Let me be what you want me to be. Let me do what you want me to do. Please, Master." 

Porthos growls. "Absolutely and with *great* pleasure, pet. And what you wanted to tell me before...?" 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "Everything, Master. The... I want to tell you everything. It's... foolish —" 

"Shh, no. I've always wanted to know everything about you. Now I get to interrogate you anytime I like. Don't I," Porthos says, lifting his chin and *petting* Aramis's. 

"Please. Please, yes, Master —" 

"First question — what's wrong with *this* place? What didn't you tell me when we were getting all set up?" 

Aramis — winces.

And Porthos growls a little and cups Aramis's face with both hands, pushing his fingers into Aramis's hair and forcing him to keep looking into his eyes — 

To keep being *seen* —

"Shh, no, don't look down, pet. Look up, right into my eyes. You're mine, and that's — fuck, that's what I want," Porthos says, and licks his lips. 

Aramis pants and obeys *immediately* — 

Porthos growls again — 

So *hungrily* — 

"You just told me you think better with your eyes closed and I'm —" And Porthos laughs, breathless and low. "You also told me that my preferences were better than yours. Didn't you." 

Oh. "Yes, Master. *Please*." 

"Right. So..." Porthos licks his lips again. "Tell me, just tell me, what it is about this place that's so fucked, I'll make it better for both of us, and then we're going to fuck like *animals*." 

Aramis moans. "I — please, Master, I only — I had a love when I was a boy, and we most often *made* love in stables. It —" 

"It didn't work out." 

Aramis winces and doesn't think, doesn't — 

"Shh, shh, let's — yeah. I get it, I think. Focus on me. On my *voice*," Porthos says, kissing Aramis's temples and then *bending* Aramis's head down. 

"Oh — yes, Master!" And Aramis looks down at Porthos's boots — no, he closes his eyes — 

"Focus on me talking to you..." 

"Yes, Master —" 

"Holding you..." And Porthos grips Aramis's upper arms — 

"I — oh. Please, Master, yes —" 

"Focus on me making you mine." 

"Yes. Yes. Always —" 

"You were mine before we ever met. Weren't you." 

Aramis moans — "*Yes*, Master — you — you were the missing *piece* —" 

"There was a hole in your life without me. Wasn't there." 

"Yes, Master!" 

"There was a hole in my life without you, pet," Porthos says, quiet and firm and so *sure* — 

"Me... yes?" 

"Oh, yeah. Your Master needed you. Needed you as a friend and brother and *companion*, but... needed this even more." 

"Oh — fuck — I'm *sorry* —" 

"Shh, shh, easy, pet. Easy." 

"But —" 

"I didn't claim you until tonight, did I?" 

Aramis blinks and looks at his scattered and small thoughts. "I..." 

"I didn't *take* you until tonight." 

"N-no, Master." 

"That's right. So it's *both* of our faults — and mostly mine, because you found a *lot* of little ways to tell me that you wanted to be mine. Didn't you." 

Aramis blushes and — moans. "I..." 

"Shh, just answer." 

"Yes, Master. I couldn't help it, Master. I... couldn't stop myself, sometimes." 

Porthos takes a shuddering breath and kisses the top of Aramis's head — 

Takes another shuddering breath with his mouth pressed right there — 

*Nuzzles* in — 

Aramis steps closer because he *must* — and Porthos pulls him into a tight, tight hug. Aramis tucks his face in against Porthos's throat — 

"My pet feels so perfect..." 

"Oh... thank you, Master." 

"You couldn't stop yourself from *trying* to give yourself to me. Is that right?" 

Aramis shivers and needs and — "Yes, Master."

"You couldn't stop yourself from —" Porthos growls and strokes up and down Aramis's back — 

Down to his arse — 

He *cups* Aramis's arse — "You just couldn't do it in the obvious ways. Right?"

"N-no, Master —" 

"Shh, shh, 's all right. I know it would've been too much, what with me not reaching out for you. With your *Master* not reaching out for you." 

"I —" 

"I want you bad, pet..." 

"I'm yours!" 

"All mine?" 

"Anything — anything you want —" 

"More information first. More..." And that wet sound is Porthos licking his lips. He's — 

"There is... there is something... special that you want?" 

"Everything with you is special. 'm going to be dreaming about tossing you off for *years*." 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"But... I need to know more *about* my pet," Porthos says, and sounds like he's saying... much, much more than he actually is. 

Aramis isn't sure what, though. "Please, Master," he says, and kisses Porthos's throat. "Please ask me, order me — everything." 

Porthos growls and strokes him, pets him, *grips* him — 

"Please, yes —" 

"More, I need more. I —" And Porthos growls again and pushes back gently. "Stay *right* there," he says. 

"Yes, Master," Aramis says, and keeps his head down — 

And crosses his arms behind his back to keep from *reaching*, because Porthos is *stripping* — 

"Oh, pet..." 

"No? Is it wrong?" 

"'s just right. It's getting me hotter. Needier." 

"Oh — fuck —" 

"Yeah. When I've got myself naked, I'm stripping *you* —" 

"Please —" 

"And then we're going to *talk*." 

"I." 

Porthos laughs, bright and hungry and perfect — "*Probably* not for long. *Probably*." 

"Yes, Master. I. I want you very badly." 

"I want you like *air*, pet. I want — I want everything. *Everything*," Porthos says, and leans against the door of an empty stall to remove his boots and socks. 

"Please. Please tell me —" 

"Wait. Wait for me. I need us naked for this. I need... we're going to see everything about each other." 

Aramis moans and tries not to *yank* at his own clothes — 

"Are you clutching your hands together?" 

"*Yes*, Master!" 

"Are you rushing me in your head?" 

"*No* —" 

"Shh, 's all right, I won't tease. You're so gorgeous. You're so perfect," Porthos says, standing straight again and working open his slick breeches. "I'm so *fucking* lucky." 

"Me — I —" 

"Yeah? Both of us are lucky, maybe?" And Porthos grins at him so *brightly* — 

So. "Master... I love you." 

Porthos's jaw drops —

His fingers stop *working* — 

No — 

"I'm sorry, please —" 

"Shh, shh, I — fuck, you know I love you, too — I mean, I've said it, and I meant it —" 

"You... weren't expecting me to say it so plainly?" 

Porthos *pants* — 

He sounds *hurt* — 

And then he growls and *shoves* his breeches down, stepping out of them — 

He's so big and hard and *perfect* — 

He's coming *closer* — 

He's cupping Aramis's *face* — and Aramis realizes that he doesn't know when he'd looked up, that he's bad, that he's — 

"*Mm* — *mmmm* —" 

And Porthos's kisses are so — so *vast*, somehow, so deep and wet, so *much* — 

Porthos is making Aramis *feel*... exactly how much he loves him. 

Exactly how much he *wants* — 

And all Aramis can do is groan, try to make himself smaller, try to make himself *open*, ready, *more* — 

Porthos growls into his mouth and starts stripping him, starts — oh, but is Aramis allowed to help? 

Porthos hadn't *said* so, but — 

Aramis starts working on his breeches once Porthos gets his weapons-belts off , and — 

And then there are two big, warm, hard, scarred hands cupping Aramis's own — 

Teeth on Aramis's *lip* — 

*Hot* eyes gazing down into his own — 

Aramis whimpers and releases his laces. "I apologize, Master!" 

Porthos nods. "You have to let me open my present, pet." 

"Oh — fuck!" 

"You have to let me see every inch of the gift you gave me," Porthos says, and nuzzles in to *bite* Aramis's throat — 

"Yes, *please*!" 

And Porthos growls and bites *harder* — 

Aramis groans and clutches him — 

Needs — 

*Needs* — but. "Please. Please bite me more, Master?" 

Porthos *pants* against his skin — "Absolutely. Fuck. *Fuck*," he says, and bites Aramis all across the front of his throat, one bite after another after *another* — 

Aramis whimpers and clutches and *bucks* — 

Needs — 

*Moans* — 

And then Porthos nuzzles their beards together and bites Aramis's jaw, his shoulder — 

Pulls back and pushes off Aramis's coat, flips down his braces — 

Peels off Aramis's shirt — 

"You're so bloody *gorgeous*," he says, shoving Aramis back against the wall and bending down to suck and bite Aramis's nipples — 

"Oh — *oh* — *Master*!" 

"You like this?" 

"You — *you* —" 

"Meaning you don't like this all the *time*, but it's me, so it's — fuck — I need you so *much*," Porthos says, and sucks Aramis's nipples *hard*, once and once — 

"Please, *yes*!" 

And then he pulls back and drops to a crouch to work on Aramis's boots and socks. 

Aramis lifts his right foot — 

"There's a pet, my good boy, so ready for me..." 

Aramis moans. "Yes, Master, anything, anything you want —" 

Porthos growls. "You have to know I want everything. You *have* to," he says, and tugs off Aramis's boot, and sock, and then *licks* the top of Aramis's foot from his toes to his ankle — 

"*Oh* — *Master* —" 

Porthos growls *again*. "Part of me just wants to grind my prick against your feet until I spend and then lick it *up* —" 

"Oh my *God* —" 

And Porthos laughs and grins up at him. "I did say *everything*, didn't I?" 

"Yes — *yes*. And I said *anything*." 

"That you did," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows, setting down Aramis's foot and picking up the other. 

"And — I *meant* it —" 

"Have you ever used your feet on a man?" 

"Not since I was a boy, and had much *softer* feet —" 

"Oh my God —" 

Aramis laughs — "That makes you pause? *That*?" 

Porthos snorts and *massages* Aramis's newly-naked foot — 

"Oh — *oh* — *Master*..." 

"I always thought the *point* of having someone use their feet on you was that feet had some *callus* to them," Porthos says, and *works* Aramis's foot — 

"I — I can't think when you do that —" 

"Should I stop?" 

"Please don't make me say yes to that!" And Aramis laughs and grins — 

And Porthos snorts. "I have to get your trousers and breeches off, anyway, pet," he says, releasing Aramis's foot and standing — 

"Oh, God, Master, I am in *mourning* —" 

"Mayhap I'll give the *surgeon* a long and serious rubdown one day — wait. Why *haven't* I?" 

Oh — "Because... I would've begged," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. 

"And you thought I'd say no, pet?" And Porthos licks Aramis's mouth, kisses it — 

Aramis tastes his own sweat — 

Kisses back — 

Opens — 

*Opens* — 

But Porthos bites his lips, gently, and pulls back. "Answer." 

"I — I feared. I feared you would not want... everything. I feared I would ask for too much, that I would not be able to *stop* myself from asking for too much, and that I would... put you off." 

Porthos frowns. "D'you understand that you *can't* do that?" 

Aramis... smiles ruefully. "Not... yet." 

Porthos nods and licks his lips. 

"I apologize, Master, I will do better —" 

"And so will I," Porthos says, opening Aramis's trousers and breeches *quickly*, *efficiently* — 

Pushing them down and down and — 

Pausing, right there, to *sniff* him — 

Aramis *moans* — 

Wonders — 

*Wants* — 

"I've wanted this. *Just* this. For so *sodding* long..." And Porthos's voice is a low, *hungry* growl as he scrapes his *teeth* at the base of Aramis's cock — 

Aramis cries out as his cock *jerks* — 

"You smell — and taste — *perfect* —" 

"Thank you —" 

"Shh. Did you like that. My teeth, right there?" 

"I — I — it was a little — too sharp — I'm sorry —" 

"Shh. I don't need to hurt you in a way you don't love," Porthos says, and scrapes his teeth more gently — 

"*Ahn* —" 

"Like that?" 

"Like — oh, yes, yes, please, oh, Master, Master, I want to love *everything* you —" 

"I know you do, I know... fuck, your scent drives me *mad*," Porthos says, and noses in to kiss and nuzzle Aramis's *balls* — 

"*Oh* —" 

"Here it comes, pet," Porthos says, and scrapes his teeth just as gently — 

"*Fuck* — I — Master, Master, I can take — harder there —" 

Porthos growls. "D'you want to...?" 

"Yes, please!" 

"D'you want to because you think *I* want you to?" 

"I like it! I like being *hurt*," Aramis says, and tries to spread his legs — his trousers and breeches are still around his *knees* — "Please! Please let me prove to you —" 

"Shh. Here," Porthos says, and starts to *nibble*. 

"Oh — oh, *fuck*," Aramis says, and clutches at the stable wall — 

Tries to stay *still* — 

Tries — 

He's moaning and whimpering and — 

His cock is jerking and *spattering* *everything* — 

There is slick dripping down Porthos's *back* —

"M-Master!" 

"Mmmm...?" 

Aramis cries out and *shudders*, all over — 

And Porthos nibbles more — 

And more — 

"Master, *please*!" 

And then Porthos *sucks* — 

Slurps his way *off* — 

"Aramis..." 

"Yes — *yes*!"

And Porthos looks up at him with his hair wild and his *eyes* wild and his lips — 

His beautiful lips *swollen* — 

"Pet. One day I'm going to spend hours just biting and licking and kissing and sucking you all *over*. You up for that?" 

For a moment, Aramis can only stare, slack-jawed and foolish. *After* that, he says, "If by 'up', you mean 'painfully erect' —" 

Porthos snorts — "D'you like *that* pain? Mm?" 

"I — do you mean... do I like to... wait?" 

Porthos licks his lips and *stares* at Aramis's cock — 

And stares so — 

Aramis's cock twitches *violently* — 

And Porthos's growl sounds so *approving* that it twitches *again*. 

"Yeah, I — mm. *One* moment," Porthos says, and *yanks* Aramis's trousers and breeches the rest of the way down — "Step out, c'mon." 

"Yes, Master," Aramis says, and obeys *quickly* — 

"There's a pet — and there you are, naked and perfect, just for me," Porthos says, setting Aramis's clothes aside in a messy pile and then sitting back on his heels, looking Aramis over *greedily* as he strokes his own thighs. 

"Would my Master like for me to pose?" 

"Oh my God, your Master would die right here in a puddle of sweat and spend — let's try that immediately," Porthos says, and they laugh together. 

"How —" 

"Give me a fantasy, pet. Give me..." And Porthos grins. "Tell you what: You show me a pose you've fantasized about being in *just* for me... and I'll do something to you that I've fantasized about just for *you*." 

"Oh — shit. Yes, Master. I — I —"

"You're thinking, I know, 's all right. Close your eyes. Go on." 

Oh — Aramis grins. "Thank you, Master," he says, and does just that. 

And he thinks —

And thinks — 

And. 

There's... 

There's really no question. 

There is — 

He opens his eyes — 

"So quick?" 

"Yes, Master. May I — may I move?" 

Porthos licks his lips. "Any way you need to, pet," he says, and cups his cock — 

Squeezes and strokes it and — 

And Aramis doesn't let himself stare... for more than a moment. 

Porthos laughs at him as he turns away. "Yeah, you want it, pet? I can't sodding *wait* to give it to you, hard and deep and *slow*." 

Aramis *stumbles* — 

"Easy, easy, pet..." 

"I — I apologize —" 

"Shh, it's all right. Just pose for me. Be my good boy." 

"Oh — God. I want that," Aramis says, blushing hard and moving into the stall Porthos had prepared for them. 

"*Do* you, now." 

"Yes, Porthos. I... I would like to be your... good boy," Aramis says, and spreads his legs just so, and bends, grabbing his ankles, and breathes — 

And breathes — 

And — he can do better. "I... do not always." He swallows. 

"Keep going, you gorgeous — *fuck*," Porthos says, and Aramis can hear him moving behind him — 

"I. I like. Sometimes I miss being — a boy. A true boy. Please." 

"You brave, perfect..." Porthos growls and cups Aramis's arse — 

Aramis gasps for the feel of his hot hands on his naked skin — 

"And I was going to ask for it, you know." 

"For... for... I don't —" 

"I was going to ask if you ever wanted to be my boy," Porthos says, growling and *massaging* Aramis's arse — 

"Oh — *please*, Master!" 

"How old... no. No, wait. In my *hottest* fantasies where you're my little boy..."

"Oh, God — *God* —" 

"Yeah. Yeah, just saying it — you beautiful — *fuck*, I *love* you," Porthos says, and pushes two fingers into Aramis's cleft — 

"*Ahn* —" 

"Saw that little pot in your pocket... took it out. Is it oil? Pomade? Make me happy and say yes," he says, and *rubs* — 

"It's oil! Olive oil! Please, please, *please* —" 

"Shh, shh. Wait. Let me say this," Porthos says, and *stops* rubbing — 

Aramis *whimpers* — 

"Ah — *fuck*, you make me so *hot*..." 

"Master, I *need* you!" 

"I'm yours. I'm sodding — but *listen*," Porthos says, and *presses* his fingers to Aramis's hole, presses *hard* — 

Aramis *whines* — 

Tries to quiet himself — 

"I — I apologize, Master! This is a *fantasy*!" 

"Just this?" 

"Yes, *please*!" 

Porthos growls and *rubs* again — 

"Oh, *yes* —" 

"Your... your hot little hole is hungry, is it." 

Aramis *grunts* —

"You need it. You need it filled right up. Don't you." 

"Oh, Master. Oh, Master, yes —" 

"You don't know how good you look like this. All bent and ready and —" Porthos growls *more*. "Are you my pet?" 

"*Always*!"

"Are you my *pet* — or are you my *boy*. Right this second. Right *now*." 

Oh. Oh... 

"Yeah. Think on it. Because it's maybe not right to put a pet — a poor little animal — in a stressful position like this one —" 

"Please! I am your boy! I am —" Aramis moans and pants and swallows and — "I am your little boy, I will — I am — please tell me *how*!" 

Porthos takes a *ragged* breath — 

Rubs Aramis's hole so *hard* — 

So — 

So hot and rough and — 

"You're a good boy, I'd wager," he says, and doesn't *stop* rubbing. 

Aramis moans more — "I am *your* good boy." 

"Are you, now." 

"Yes, *please*, Master —" 

"Are you my..." Porthos rumbles. "Maybe you're the boy I took on just for me." 

"Yes — yes, please, Master —" 

"The boy who shines my boots, cleans my guns, oils my sword..." 

"All — all of that!" 

Porthos moans and rubs *harder* — 

"Please, *yes* —" 

"Shh. Shh." 

"I apologize —" 

"Shh, 's all right. Just quiet for me now." 

Aramis bites his *lip* — 

"Good boy. Good, good boy. I think... mm. I think you help out with the other boys at the garrison..." 

Aramis nods as much as he can in the difficult position — 

"Yeah. You help out, with the horses and such. In the mess when more of us are around than usual. Cook loves you — sweet boy like you..." 

Aramis *shivers* — 

"And, of course, you're learning to be a Musketeer yourself someday. Strong, smart boy like you. Your shooting's excellent, but... you're not so big. You're young. Small. You have a hard time with the hand-to-hand, and while you're quick and agile with the sword, you can be overpowered. You get... impatient. Hot-tempered. Sometimes you need to be disciplined for it." 

Aramis moans behind his *teeth* — 

"But everyone knows you're mine. Everyone knows what you *do* for me when you're *not* working round the garrison — and when you're not doing the *official* things a man takes a boy for. So. No one disciplines you but me." 

Aramis moans again — 

*Again* — 

Shudders and *aches* — 

"Can you dream for me, Aramis?" And Porthos moves his hands to Aramis's hips, cups and *squeezes* them. 

"I — Master —" 

"Can you follow my voice?" 

Oh. "Yes. Yes!" 

"Can you follow it right down?" 

"Oh... oh, yes, Master —" 

"Down... into a little trance?"

"Yes — yes, *please*, Master!" 

"So eager, so... mm. Right, I already knew you were perfect," Porthos says, and *squeezes* Aramis's hips — 

"I am *yours* —" 

"You are. You *are*. And you're going down for me." 

"Yes — *yes* —" 

"Down and down and *down*," Porthos says, and his voice is rumbling and low and *quiet*. "Down where there's just the two of us." 

"Only — us —" 

"That's right, little one. Down you go..." 

"Yes... yes, Master..." 

"Your Master. Your Master who loves you..." 

"M-mine... mine to... to love me..." 

"That's right," Master says, low and soft, *soft*. "Yours to love you and hold you and discipline you and keep you. Keep you forever." 

Aramis moans —

"Breathe for me now, little one. Breathe your way down..." 

"Yes, Master..." 

"That's right, all the way, and you're going to stay there, right there where you can be little and sweet for me." 

"Always, Master!" 

And Master — pauses. 

Aramis can hear him pause — 

Aramis can *feel* him pause, feel Master all *through* him — 

"Master?" 

"How old are you, little one?" And Master *strokes* Aramis's hips. "Master has a hard time keeping track, sometimes..." 

"I am twelve, Master! I will be thirteen soon, and I hope I get much bigger —" 

Master growls. "Do you?" 

"Yes, Master! The other boys are so much stronger than I am, and they tease, and I want to beat them until they *weep*." 

Master *coughs* a laugh. "Those are your brothers you're talking about, y'know." 

"I will be better than all of them someday! I will ride with you, and with Athos and d'Artagnan!" 

And Aramis feels Master pause again... 

Does he not believe Aramis? 

Has Aramis not been — 

"Master, I promise! I know I have not been good —" 

"You've been sodding wonderful, precious, I promise. I was just... dreaming," Master says, and laughs softly as he pets Aramis's arse with his big, wonderful hands. 

"Dreaming? Of what, Master?" 

"Of the two of us together, riding and fighting and making *all* kinds of noise. It's the best dream. The *best* dream." 

Aramis moans — "I dream it every night, Master! Every —" 

"Shh, shh. I have other dreams, too, precious." 

"Of course you do! My Master is a man of imagination and intellect!" 

Master laughs then, full-bodied and bright. "My precious maybe, *maybe* loves his Master a lot...?" 

"No maybes! My Master is everything! I would *do* anything! I want — I want..." 

"What do you want? Mm? Tell your Master." 

"I want to please you! I want to... nn..." 

"No, no, don't you pause, now, precious, tell me. Tell me what's *wrong*," Master says, and squeezes Aramis's hips so hard — 

"Ohn — Master — Master, sometimes you go to brothels, and you — you give your cock to women and other boys and not *me*!" 

"I *do* — uh. Uh." 

And Master is *pausing* again — 

There is something so *wrong* about that — 

Something that makes *Aramis* feel wrong, feel — 

But then Master growls and pushes his fingers between Aramis's cheeks, just like Aramis hoped he would when he'd gotten into this position naked! 

He — 

He *rubs* — 

He touches Aramis's *hole*, and already he feels sensitized, *hot*, itchy under the skin like he needs to sweat and just *isn't*, yet — 

Aramis is dancing on his feet — 

"Be still now, precious..." 

"I'm sorry!" 

"Shh, it's all right. You. You've never felt me here. Have you." 

"No — *no*!" 

"But you've wanted to..." 

"Oh, yes, Master! You've touched so many — you've made love with so many people, and I know I'm not big enough —"

"You are," Master says, low and dark and — hungry. 

"I... am?" 

There is a wet sound — Master is licking his lips. "You are, little one. *Precious*. I thought you weren't ready. I thought... I think I was... waiting." 

"Master?" 

"Yeah," Master says, *thoughtfully*, as he rubs the small of Aramis's back soothingly with his free hand for a moment before pulling both hands away — 

"Oh, no —" 

"Shh, precious. Just getting the oil." 

"Oh — *oh* —" 

"Yeah. Gonna treat you right; I promise." 

"You always do!" 

"That's 'cause you're *my* boy," Master says, and there are slick sounds behind Aramis. "No one else's." 

"No one's!" 

"Good boy," Master says, and then cups Aramis's left hip with one hand and pushes *slick* fingers into Aramis's cleft — 

"*Oh* —" 

"But see, I was *waiting*, precious," Master says, and — 

And rubs the oil all —

All *over* — 

"Please! Please! What — what were you waiting —" 

"To see you skiving off your duties to stick your hands down the trousers of one of the other boys —" 

"No! No, never!" 

"To see you charming your way under the skirts of some likely young tavern girl —" 

"I want *you*, Master, *you*!" 

Master *pants* — "Just me?" 

"Please, you must — no, I know that's wrong, I know it's your choice, your *decision*, but I'm *your* boy. You *saved* me from that — that awful place —" 

"I —" 

"And it's you — you get to decide who I touch! Who touches *me*. *No* one else, Master." 

Master *grunts* — "Not even you." 

"*Especially* not me! I — I did not — I didn't choose wisely, Master. You will teach me. Or... or keep me. Just for yourself," Aramis says, and his voice is small, but — 

So is he. 

He bites his lip — 

And Master growls, long and low and *hungry*. "My little boy..." 

"Yes —" 

"My perfect, beautiful —" Master growls *more* — "I *will* teach you. I'll teach you everything I know, everything I've learned, everything I *will* learn. And you'll *still* be mine, *all* mine, 'cause I'm never letting you *go*," he says, and pushes in — 

In — 

Oh — 

*Oh* — "Master!" 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm inside you, precious. Two big fingers for my sweet little boy..." 

Aramis whines and *sobs* — 

"Oh... oh, *precious*. Is it too much?" 

"No! *No*!" 

"Fuck — d'you *like* it?" 

"Yes, Master! Please, Master, please, Master, *more*!" 

"More — do you want to feel me move them now, precious?" 

Aramis opens his mouth — but the only thing that comes out is a groan. He remembers being in school, remembers being *fucked*, and all the ways it was terrible, and all the ways it *wasn't*, and this — 

He knows it will be so much *better* — 

It's already so much *better* — 

"Oh, precious, precious, you're making me sweat like a *pig* from wanting you..." 

Aramis *grunts* — "Please! Master, you must *do* what you want!" 

"I *am*. *Trust* me," Master says, and laughs. "I want to touch you all night, feel you... fuck. Fuck — wait, no, this isn't right, this isn't the right *position*." 

"N-no?" 

"No, you'll fall down soon, because I *will* make you feel too good —" 

"Oh, *Master*!" 

Master *moans* — and pulls out slowly, steadily — 

"Please please —" 

"Shh, 's all right, you're all right — there. Now get down, all the way down on your hands and knees on the blankets..." 

"Yes, Master, please — please, put your fingers back —"

"And. Fuck you with them?" 

Aramis cries *out* — 

Spreads his knees — 

Reaches back to spread his *arse* — 

"Oh, *fuck*, you're so — you're so hungry for me..." 

"Yes, *yes* —" 

"I'm hungry for *you*. I'm hungry for every —" And Porthos growls and pushes back *in*, not so slowly — 

Aramis *moans* — 

It comes out so *deeply* — 

Like a *man*!

"Oh, you — mm. So beautiful, so *beautiful*," he says, and starts to thrust immediately, one push and then another, another, *another* — 

Aramis tries to stay open, tries to stay quiet enough not to spook the horses, tries to — 

He clenches and *sobs*, clenches again and *yells* — 

*Shouts*, because Master crooks his fingers, his thick and wonderful — 

"Yeah, yeah, that's right, precious. Feels good, doesn't it?" 

"Yes! *Yes*!" 

"You like it when Master fucks you, don't you." 

"Yes, Master! Please don't stop! Please —" 

"You're dripping slick all over the blankets for me, precious. Slick and. And..." And Master *grips* Aramis's cock *firmly* and *strokes* — 

So — 

So *hard* — 

Aramis *howls* —

"Oh, good boy, good — mm, mmm — good and *delicious* boy, good — I'm rubbing your slick all through my beard so I don't have to stop *smelling* you —"

Aramis howls *again*, cock *spasming* — 

"Oh, you're close, aren't you?" 

"M-Master!" 

"You're going to spend for me? All for me?" 

"Yes, Master! Any — I love you! I *love* you!" And that was *sobbed* more than spoken, that was — 

He shouldn't ask for so *much* — 

Master already *gives* him so much — 

"Oh, precious, I love you more than *life*," Master says, and crowds him, covers him, kisses the back of Aramis's neck, licks his *sweat* — "You're so good, so perfect and delicious — of course I won't let you go..." 

"*Master* —" 

"Don't doubt that. You can doubt anything but that Master loves you and needs you, needs you right here, down on your knees —" 

Aramis clenches and *sobs* — 

"Oh, good boy, good *boy*. Do you want Master to touch your little prick again? It's so hard..." 

"I need — I want — please, everything, Master! Everything everything!" 

"Everything to make you feel just right?" And Master rubs his hard calluses over Aramis's nipples, *twists* the right — 

Aramis *yells* — 

"Everything to make you even *more* my boy?" And Master strokes down to Aramis's balls and squeezes so *tight* — 

"Oh — oh, *Master*," Aramis says, but a part of him wants to call Master another word, wants to call him his papa and mean it, *mean* it, and he knows it'll come out if he's not careful — 

"Everything to make you loose and hungry and sweet for me?" And Master pulls back and — 

And spreads Aramis — 

And his tongue — 

Oh, his *tongue* and his *fingers* — 

So wet and so hard and so slippery and so — 

Both fucking him at *once*, at *once*, and Aramis sobs and bucks and writhes and he can't, he can't, he — 

"Ah, *fuck*, the taste of you is even *better* with this olive —" 

"Papa, *please*!" 

And. 

Master is silent. So — 

He's panting. 

He's panting and *still* and silent, *gripping* Aramis's arse with one hand and — 

Oh, no, no, no — 

"I'm sorry, Master, I'm —" 

"One question. *One*." 

"Master, *please* —" 

"Am *I* your papa, or is it — were you thinking of someone else —" 

"No! You! It's you! I — please, P—Master, you're everything to me, *everything*, and I just want — I'm *sorry*! I won't say it, I won't, you won't have to —" 

"Shh. Shh," Master says, stroking up Aramis's back until he can cup the back of Aramis's neck and squeeze — 

"Nnh —" 

"My little precious should've... should've *told* me what he needed. That's your job, you know. Your most *important* job." 

"I — no —" 

"Shh. When Papa knows what you need —" 

"*Oh* —" 

"Then he can give it to you. Can't he." 

"Nuh — I — *please* — please *don't* —" 

"When Papa knows what his sweet precious needs," he says, and pushes Aramis's head *down*, "then he can give us *both* what *we* need." 

"What — what?" 

"'m never going to have a blood family of my own, precious..." 

"But —" 

"Shh. And stay right down there." 

"Yes — Master —" 

"No. That's not what you call me." 

"Oh — please! But — but do you *want* —" 

"Like I said, I'm never going to have a blood family of my own. No daughters, no sons. Certainly no sons as fine and beautiful as you," he says, and pulls out — not very slowly. 

"Ahn — *ahn* —" 

"But you gave yourself to me, precious. My precious boy. My precious *son*." 

"Oh — *God*!" 

"Didn't you." 

"*Yes*, Papa! *Yes*!" 

"You're all mine..." 

"I — I — *please*!" 

"Gonna fuck you now, precious. I —" Papa swallows with a hard click. "I can't wait. It won't be slow. D'you think you can take —" 

Aramis lowers his head and lifts his arse and balances on his face so he can spread himself with both hands because — 

Oh, *because* — 

He's not asking too much!

It's somehow not too — 

"Ah — ah *fuck*, you — Aramis. My — *fuck*. Stay right where you are, just for — I need to look at you, for me, like *this*..." 

And then there is — 

The *sounds* are — 

"Papa..." 

"Yes, Papa *is* tossing himself off, but don't worry, that's just so I don't hurt you too much, precious. You're. Papas don't hurt their sons. Not. Not like this," Papa says, and strokes himself faster — 

Faster — 

Aramis moans and clenches at the *thought* — 

"D'you know how many times I've *done* this, precious? How many — oh, you make me *hurt* with *needing* you..." 

"Papa, please, please don't *wait*!" 

"Shh, shh, just a little — fuck, fuck — I'll make you ride me one of these days —" 

"I will! I'll do it just as you wish!" 

"I'll — ah — ah, *fuck* — I'll make sure I can see your perfect, pretty face — no — *fuck*," and Papa growls and knocks Aramis's hands aside — 

Pushes the head of his slick, hot, *substantial* cock against Aramis's *hole* — 

Pushes it so — 

So *hard* — 

"Take me, precious boy, take me all the way in you —" 

"Yes, yes, Papa, *yes* —" 

"You know Papa needs you *bad* now..." 

Aramis whimpers and clenches — 

Papa *hisses* — "*Precious*." 

And Aramis flexes open, *open* — "Now, Papa, now! While I am *good* for you!" 

"Ah — *fuck*. You're perfect, you're always perfect, you could never be anything — oh, anything —" And then Papa is groaning, groaning so deep in his chest as the head slips in — 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"That's it, that's my boy, *talk* to me, tell me how it *feels*," Papa says, growling still under his breath and pushing more — 

"Yes — it feels — *yes*!" 

"Is that —" And Papa laughs — 

Moans — 

Pushes *more* — 

"Oh —" 

"Is that a feeling, then?" 

"Yes! *Yes*!" 

"Ah, fuck, you're right, it is, it is," Papa says, and starts to rock back and *forth* — 

"*AHN* —" 

"Everything is yes with you, precious, everything is — something that has to be *agreed* to *immediately* —" 

"Oh — *Papa* —" 

"You're my *heart*," Papa says, "my — fuck — ah, fuck, put your hands down, brace yourself, nice and. And strong for me —" 

Aramis whimpers and does it, tries — 

Holds onto the blanket and the hay beneath it and — 

And *groans* for Papa's first long stroke — 

And the next — 

And then they get shorter, faster — 

Papa groans and pants and *growls* and — 

And fucks *in* — 

*In* — 

"*Papa*!" 

"That's — can you *take* it?" 

"Yes! Yes!" 

"Do you *like* —" 

"Don't stop! Don't ever — oh, *Papa*!" 

"You — ah, fuck, you feel me *flexing* in you? You feel me — feel me jerking and twitching —" 

"Inside me!" 

"You're — oh, my precious, my precious baby, taking it so — so *good* —" 

Aramis *grins*, clenching *hard* — 

And *howling*, because — 

Oh — 

"You — yeah, you're already a little raw, precious, you — 'm — it's been too long for you — ah, *fuck*, I want — to get you in *shape* —" 

Aramis *sobs* — 

"Oh, precious, can you — are you *sure* —" 

"Please don't stop please don't *stop*!" 

"We — I won't be *able* to soon —" 

"*Good*!"

And Papa growls and covers him, bites the back of Aramis's neck, sniffs and nuzzles up into Aramis's hair, bites Aramis's *throat* — 

"*Papa*!" 

But Papa is growling, rutting, deep and hard, *staying* deep and fucking Aramis so — 

So *fast* — 

And then he *stops*, suddenly, bites Aramis *harder* — 

Oh, wet!

Wet and hot and — 

And nothing like being filled by the priests and older boys, nothing like being *used* in all those wrong ways by all those wrong *people* — 

Papa is groaning so *loudly* — 

His cock is spasming hard, so *hard* — 

Aramis *has* to clench — 

And then Papa grunts and pushes him down, holds him — 

"Papa —" 

"Need you more, pet, precious, need you — just a little more," he says, and holds Aramis by the back of the neck and the *cock* — 

Fucks him — 

*Fucks* him — 

Aramis *howls* — 

"Ah, yeah, yeah, make all the noise, pretty love, be loud and make me spend again *fast*." 

"Y-*yes*!" 

And that's really the last word Aramis *can* say, because Papa starts *stroking* him while he fucks him, fast and light and perfect, so *perfect* — 

It feels so *good*, like Aramis's own touches with Papa's perfect hand, like he's — 

"I've watched you tossing yourself off," Papa grits as he — 

As he *pounds* into Aramis —

As he *works* Aramis's *cock* —

"Watched you *pleasure* yourself when. When you were too far gone to notice — oh, fuck — beautiful boy, beautiful *boy*, just want to treat you so *sweet* —" 

Aramis groans and sobs and nods, drools all over his own fist and *nods* — 

"I'll give you — everything —" 

Aramis wants to *beg*, but he's *getting* everything, everything he's ever *wanted* — 

"I'll never let you go for anything, *anything* — ah, fuck, fuck, I'll go mad if you leave me —" 

Aramis gasps — "*Never*!" 

Papa snarls and *squeezes* Aramis's cock — 

Aramis whines and shakes and bucks, shoving himself *back* onto Papa's cock, trying to find his rhythm — 

"Oh, baby, yes, do it, do it, just like — a little faster now —" 

Aramis whines and whines and does it — 

And does it — 

And *tries*, and every time he clenches and loses the rhythm he feels so *bad*, but Papa just kisses him, pets him, strokes him gently and fast and tells him he's perfect, beautiful — 

"You're so *hot*, you're — go on, keep trying, keep *trying* —" 

"I'm — I'm *sorry*!" 

"Don't *stop*, precious," Papa growls. "Every time you fail, you get me *hotter*." 

And that makes no *sense*, but of course he has to do what his Papa wants, what his Papa likes, what makes his Papa groan and twitch *inside* him — 

"Nnh — oh, that *hurts*, but I never want to stop, never, look at you riding me *already* —" 

Aramis *gasps* — 

"Yeah, didn't think that was what you were doing, did you?" And Papa is panting, dripping sweat *on* him — "Didn't think you were shoving yourself onto my prick and driving me — fuck — so *mad* —" 

And Papa groans more — 

Pants and grunts and squeezes —

Squeezes *hard* — 

Aramis bucks and loses the *rhythm* again — 

"Ah, *shit*, precious, look what you *do* to me," Papa says, and fucks in raggedly, growls *hungrily* —

Aramis groans and tries and — 

"Shh, no, no, be still now, nice and — oh, precious baby, I'm going to make you spend so *hard* —" 

Aramis *wails* — 

"Yeah, you can feel it coming now, can't you?" 

"Yes — yes, Papa —" 

"You can feel what I'm going to do to you?" 

"Please, anything, every— Everything!" 

"Everything is *yours*," Papa says, pushing Aramis's thighs wider apart with his legs and fucking him so — 

So — 

Aramis's cock is spasming in Papa's hand again and *again* — 

His belly is jumping — 

His nipples *ache* — 

He's hot all over and he's begging, he's begging, he has to be *begging* — 

"This, this is yours whenever you *want* it!" 

And Aramis cries out and nods, tries to thank his Papa, tries to thank him for *everything*, but then Papa works his thumb just under the head of Aramis's cock — 

Aramis *chokes* on a cry — 

And then Papa shifts his *angle* inside him and pushes — 

*Fucks* against Aramis's pleasure-button — 

Again — 

Again again again again, and Aramis knows he's screaming, knows it's too loud, knows he's not being considerate of the *horses*, but he can't care, he can't — 

It's so much — 

It's so hot so full so — 

It's so hungry and wild, so powerful — 

Papa — 

Oh, *Papa*, and Aramis *is* spending for him, grunting and arching against Papa's big, perfect body, bucking and spurting and spurting and *spurting* — 

"Oh, good *boy*," Papa says, and he sounds happy, sounds hungry, sounds *desperate* as he *milks* Aramis's cock, massages and *works* it so Aramis will spend *more* — 

Even as he fucks and fucks and — 

Aramis *clenches* — 

Wails and sobs and clenches *again* — 

Papa *grunts* — "*Need* you, precious baby, need you so *bad*," he says, taking his hand away from Aramis's cock and — 

Oh, he's slurping at it, sucking and — 

"Your *taste*, your perfect —" And he growls and *fucks* Aramis, shoves *in* — 

Shoves *in* — 

Shoves in and *in*, growling and sucking at his own fingers until Aramis *whimpers* — 

"Ah, *God* —" 

And then Papa pulls Aramis up and over his lap, into a *straddle* of his lap until Aramis sinks down and down onto his cock — 

"Look at you — feel you — *UNH* —" And Papa bucks up and up and *in* — 

And *snarls* against Aramis's throat — 

"You —" 

"I love you, Papa!" 

And Papa groans and wraps his strong, strong arms around Aramis, bucking and bucking, ragged and so *good*, as he spends once more, spurting *up* into Aramis — 

Making Aramis right. 

Making — 

But Aramis is his boy, forever his boy — 

How could he be anything *but* right? 

Aramis slumps against his Papa and giggles and giggles and hums, milking Papa's cock — 

Again — 

Again — 

Papa groans and squeezes him — "Enough, precious — for now," he says, and laughs softly. 

"Yes, Papa?" 

Papa groans more, kisses all over the back of his neck and throat and shoulders — "I'll want it again *soon*." 

"I'll want *this* again soon!" 

"Mm. Will you?" 

"Yes, Papa!" 

"You won't need time to recover...?" 

Aramis opens his mouth — and thinks. When he's gone this long without being fucked before... oh. He frowns. "Papa... I might." 

"That's what I thought. Not to worry," Papa says, and squeezes him again. "We'll take care of you — and me, while we're at it." 

"My Papa will let me please him other ways?" 

"Fuck, your Papa will let you please him in every *possible* way that works for both of us —" 

"Oh, *Papa* —" 

"And we'll *experiment*, try new things, work to see what your fantasies are like, and how they look with my fantasies — oh, fuck, I'm going to get *really* hard again *imminently*," Papa says, and laughs *hard* — 

Aramis giggles — 

"Especially if you do *that* —" 

"Laugh?" 

"Laugh like *that* while I'm *in* you — oh, precious. Precious little —" Papa growls and nuzzles and turns their heads enough for an awkward kiss — 

"Mm!" 

"Mmmm..." 

Aramis tries to make it less awkward, licks the taste of his spend from Papa's beard — 

Sucks — 

Kisses everywhere he can reach — 

"Oh, you're so *sweet* — fuck. I want to fuck you about another six *times* tonight — no. Can you handle me pulling out so soon?" 

Aramis frowns. "I don't want you to, but yes, Papa." 

"Yeah, you're a smart little one. You know it's a good *idea* for me to pull out," Papa says, and kisses Aramis's forehead. 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "I do not always like good ideas." 

"Yeah, they're bloody terrible," Papa says, and cups Aramis's hips. "Here," he says, and lifts Aramis a little — 

Aramis gasps — and follows Papa's lead, letting Papa guide his speed, as well. 

"There you are... does it hurt?" 

"A little, Papa, not very much!" 

"Another reason for us to do this now, as opposed to when the good feelings wear off —" 

"I still do not *want* to —" 

"I know, precious, and I'd have you on my cock all day and night — nnh. Felt that?" 

"Oh, Papa..." 

Papa laughs quietly. "Try *very* hard not to clench —" 

And Aramis *does* try, but — fails. 

Very badly indeed. 

And Papa groans and groans and — 

Bucks, just a *little* — 

Aramis gasps — 

"Ah — *fuck*," Papa says, and *lifts* Aramis off his cock — 

"*Oh* —" 

And Papa pants and groans *more* and — "Go... go lie right down on those blankets, precious. Let me... have a minute." 

Aramis obeys — and watches Papa clean his still-half-hard cock on a corner of the blanket — 

Watches him shudder and *pant* — 

It... "Papa, I wish to please you *now* —" 

"Shh, precious. I *appreciate* the sentiment — *and* I know it's real —" 

Aramis closes his mouth — 

And Papa grins. "'m too sensitive. That last bit of fucking was a little too much for *me*." 

"Oh. Truly?" 

"Mm-hm. Wouldn't change it for the *world*, though," Papa says, and crawls up next to Aramis, pulling him close — 

So *close* — 

Searching Aramis's face with a smile on *his* face, like everything he sees is exactly what he *wants* — 

Aramis *grins* and pushes closer — 

"Oh — mm. Yeah, precious, do *that*." 

"Yes? All the time?" 

"*All* the time." 

"Even when you are working?" 

"Well, you should *probably* try not to block my shooting arm..." 

"But the other arm?" 

Papa squeezes him. "Like *so*." 

Aramis giggles hard. "I love you!" 

"You're mine. You're *mine*," Papa says, *wonderingly*, as if this is *strange*! 

"You claimed me! You took me home and you — you *claimed* me!" 

Papa searches Aramis and licks his lips. "Yeah. I did. I'd do it again, too. Every day for the rest of my life." 

Aramis moans. "Yes?" 

"Yeah." 

"You would not... grow weary?" 

"You're the prize at the end of every..." Papa shakes his head and grins. "Every day. *Every* day. I'm not saying *try* to get yourself in trouble... I'm just saying I'll be there." 

Aramis pants. "Papa..." 

"Yeah?" 

"I... I..." 

"Mm? D'you need to get a little closer —" 

"I think — I think I need —" And Aramis pushes close, tucks his face in against Papa's throat — 

And breathes. 

And breathes. 

Papa strokes and pets him. "As soon as you can, you tell me what you *can* about what you need, precious. Because I need to give it to you." 

Aramis kisses Papa's throat — 

Aramis nuzzles and breathes against Papa's throat — 

Breathes in Papa's scents — 

Breathes. 

And. 

And he can't help — 

He can't help breathing himself *up*, even with Papa petting him, even with them so close — 

Even with the feel of Papa's spend — 

Master's spend — 

Trickling down and down — 

But he's not down. 

Not quite — that far. 

He can't be young anymore. 

Not with — 

Not. 

"'s all right, precious. Anything you need," Master says, and kisses Aramis's temples, and — 

Aramis has to tell. 

Has to. 

"Master —" His voice is a *croak* — 

And Master grunts in shock. "Precious — pet?" 

Aramis pulls back enough to meet Porthos's gaze, and realizes that his cheeks are wet. That — 

No, that's not *right*, it's not — 

"I'm — I'm sorry, Master —" 

"Shh, shh. You need me to be your Master now?" 

"I — I — yes." 

Master nods and kisses Aramis's wet cheeks... and changes, subtly, the way he's stroking him. 

Oh... 

"How's that, pet?" 

"It feels... like something I do not deserve right now, Master." 

Master nods thoughtfully. "Why not?" 

"Because I — I took your little boy away before you were ready —" 

"Mm. You gave me my pretty little pet back, though. I *missed* him." 

Aramis inhales sharply — "You — yes?" 

"Oh, yeah. I think you *are* my little kitty. Aren't you." 

Aramis... mewls. And flushes. 

Master growls. "Good boy. Mayhap you need to not make any more human-noises for a while...?" 

And the *flood* of desire for that — 

Of need and *temptation* — 

Of — 

"Yeah," Master says. "I know what you need. Don't I." 

Aramis opens his mouth — and then closes it and mews. Just — mews. 

"Oh, pretty, so pretty. We'll do this. But I *have* to ask. One thing. Just one, all right?" And Master looks into Aramis's eyes.

Aramis mews again and nods. 

Master's eyes heat and he strokes Aramis's fur so — 

So — 

"Good pet. Now. *Something* hurt you tonight, and made you *need* to stop being my little boy." 

Aramis mews and nods. 

"*Can* you tell me what it was, even if it's in really vague terms? I want to be able to stop it from happening again — not because I need you to be someone who you need *not* to be, but because I need you to feel *good*. All right?" 

Aramis leans in and — drags his cheek against Master's beard. 

"Oh, pet..." 

"It was... too much, for a moment — for much longer than a moment. It was too much that you loved me — that you love me so much that you will always fight for me, and care for me, and keep me, and save me..." Aramis shakes his head. "I am not saying this well." 

Master frowns. "We're brothers..." 

"Yes — yes. But... for that fantasy... we are more than that," Aramis says and looks up into Master's dark, warm eyes. 

And Master takes a sharp breath. "And... it was a lot more than a fantasy, by the end. It *is* a lot more than a fantasy." 

"Yes —" 

"It was too much for you to have a *father* who loved you that way, after all these years of — oh, pet. Pet..." Master growls. "Wait one moment. Just — wait." 

"Master?" 

"Shh, I need something from my trousers," Master says, standing and moving — 

So easy and strong — 

So beautiful — 

So easy to imagine walking away *forever* — 

But he *only* goes to his crumpled trousers, and — pulls out his scarf. 

And then he brings it back, and kneels at Aramis's side — 

"C'mon, up for me, pet." 

Aramis mews and obeys — 

"Love you so much, need you — this isn't a proper collar, but it'll bring you right home to *me* until we get you one, eh? Where you belong," Master says, and — 

And he doesn't tie it on like a kerchief. 

He winds it around twice, and folds it so that the knot presses just slightly against Aramis's Adam's apple.

He. 

He is... 

Aramis looks *up* — 

Master looks down into his eyes so — so *hopefully* — "Is it a little warmer, pet? A little... a little easier?" 

Aramis swallows — 

It's *difficult* — 

It's *wonderfully* difficult and — 

He shivers hard and curls *in* against his Master, his beautiful *Master* — 

"Oh, pet..." 

Aramis mews and licks the wings of Master's collarbone. 

"You're so perfect. You just... mm. One moment," Master says, sitting them both up for long enough to cover them with the other blanket. He covers Aramis entirely, until all he can breathe is — them. 

Just them. 

"Close your eyes and sleep, pet. I'll watch over you." 

Aramis obeys.


	7. No, but the conversation is a good idea, too.

"So..." 

Athos raises an eyebrow. That wasn't the first — truncated — conversational gambit d'Artagnan had offered since they'd arrived at this tavern, but it was the first one which could, technically, be considered verbal. 

He waits. 

He watches d'Artagnan scowl at his — execrable, but better than what Athos usually chooses for just himself — wine. 

He *waits* — 

d'Artagnan throws himself back in his chair like the bundle of dissatisfied and dangerous weapons and limbs that he is, sighs — and actually *drinks* the wine. 

Every last drop of it.

*That* is new, as well. 

Athos is constitutionally incapable of considering that progress, which is, he thinks, proof that he's still a salvageable human being — 

Or, perhaps, that there *is* a salvageable human being somewhere within him. 

Certainly, d'Artagnan has never treated him otherwise. 

Neither has Porthos. 

Aramis... 

Aramis has clearer vision for such things. 

Aramis knows exactly how dark and low and *pathetic* the human heart can become, even when the human surrounding that heart does — mostly — heroic things. 

Aramis sees him very well, sometimes. 

Athos sees *him*, too. 

And... 

And what? 

He can't fault the man for taking what was very clearly on offer. 

What had always *been* on offer — 

For him — 

Athos grits his *teeth* — 

"Athos?" 

Damn. He holds up a hand to forestall anything *like* that line of questioning — 

"Um. This isn't going to be much of a conversation if neither of us actually *talk*," d'Artagnan says, precisely as aggressively as he should. 

*That* is progress. 

But — 

"Is a conversation what you actually want, d'Artagnan?"

He blushes — 

"Because I distinctly remember you saying that you wanted to drink —" 

"I didn't say I wanted to drink *alone*," d'Artagnan says, bold and brave and — 

And he doesn't, actually, remind Athos of Thomas. 

They were nothing alike whatsoever, being as how d'Artagnan was exposed to a literal handful of books before coming to Paris, and half of them were religious in nature, while Thomas had happily taken over enriching the de la Fère libraries once he'd reached sixteen, and their mother had grown too busy at Court to do it herself. 

Additionally, Thomas was punctilious about his intellectualism *and* something of a dandy — if nothing like Aramis — and d'Artagnan is, still, dangerously likely to dismiss such men as being beneath his notice without actually *studying* them first. 

But. 

Thomas was Athos's brother, and Athos had loved him.

d'Artagnan... 

"*Athos* —" 

"The first time Porthos called me 'brother', I flinched," Athos says, and — he's using his voice to cut. To wound. He stops that — 

He tries to stop that — 

He — "I still do." 

d'Artagnan swallows audibly, Adam's apple bobbing like that of a much younger boy. "I — know that." 

Athos refuses to let himself pin him with a look. He nods, instead. "He's still my brother, as is Aramis. As are you." 

"Oh — *oh* — Athos —" 

"Wait. Please," Athos says, and glares daggers at his wine, instead of at the blood-soaked ruin of — 

Of — 

No. Not now. 

"I'm — I'm waiting..." 

Well, it would help if he had somewhere to go with this, other than... 

Rank unworthiness. 

Athos doesn't let himself sigh. He *does* look up, and study d'Artagnan's handsome face, his deceptively sleepy eyes, his dark skin. "Tell me... *why* do you want to drink tonight." 

"Uh. Because our Captain is fuck only knows where and he's been replaced with a twenty-three-year-old arsehole and his two arsehole friends? Also, apparently our Captain is a witch with a weird witch-bond to *Porthos*? Also —" 

"No." 

"What? What d'you mean 'no'? Those are all really *good* reasons to drink!" 

"But they're not yours. Are they." 

d'Artagnan blinks at him — 

Flushes *hard* — and turns away. 

That... is in no way progress. 

This is the moment when Aramis or Porthos — or both of them — would reach out, and soothe, and ease the way. 

They would joke, and smile, and chivvy the truth out of d'Artagnan with frightening ease — the same frightening ease they've been using to manipulate *him* these past years. 

Porthos would cuff him for using the word 'manipulate'. 

Aramis would smile — or perhaps even wink, openly flirtatious and — 

And, tonight, he is making love with Porthos, the way he has wanted to — 

But is he being honest about his desires? 

Is he truly capable of that, after all this time?

("We are a lot alike, friend Athos.") 

Aramis had been nearly paralytically drunk when he'd said that — and not smiling, at all. 

d'Artagnan waves his long, expressive fingers in front of Athos's face, which — 

He has every right to. 

"Should I be asking you why *you* want to drink tonight, Athos?" 

Athos gives d'Artagnan one of his many, many conversation-withering *bleak* looks. 

d'Artagnan... has spent precisely *enough* time with Porthos to simply snort at it. "No. Why you want to drink *tonight*. Not why you want to drink every other night of the year, and also nearly get yourself killed, and also make me keep secrets from our *brothers*." 

Athos winces — and flinches behind his eyes. 

"I — sorry." 

Athos waves the apology off. He'd deserved — 

"Don't just wave me off. You just *told* me about flinching — it's all right if you don't want to accept my apology," d'Artagnan says. "It's *more* than all right. Just — don't pretend there's nothing *to* apologize for." 

Athos *stares* at his own wine — no. "All right. I won't." 

"Good —" 

"You're forgiven." 

"I —" 

"The things which make me flinch for the concept of brotherhood..." Athos shakes his head. "I can't talk about them. I've never *been* able to talk about them, and so they can't ever be quite real for any of you, who've only had reason to think of the concept positively —" 

"That's *shite*, Athos," d'Artagnan says, leaning forward and jabbing a finger at him. "*You're* real to *us*, so your feelings *matter*. If something's hurting you, we can stop *doing* it." 

"It would be remarkably pleasant if humans worked that way." 

d'Artagnan frowns at him, dark and hurt and — 

And Athos had just said, effectively, that d'Artagnan was incapable of not hurting him. 

Wonderful. 

"I — I meant *most* humans —" 

"Did you?" 

Athos winces and pours himself more wine, and drinks it. 

And then he pours himself more, and drinks *that*. 

And then he pours himself *and* d'Artagnan more, and breathes, and says, "I believe, strongly, that there is no one person on this planet so good, so pure, that they cannot and will not injure another person terribly — irrevocably — with malice aforethought if driven to it in just the right ways." 

d'Artagnan... draws back. 

"That doesn't mean..." Athos shakes his head. "I do trust you, and Aramis and Porthos, to do your level best not to hurt me. Just as they hopefully trust me..." But Athos has to trail off. Has to — 

Aramis, perhaps, would have tried to injure Athos if Athos had taken any longer to open the de la Fère manor to all of them so that Aramis could care for Porthos's wounds. 

Aramis has no idea why — 

And why should he care? 

"Athos? Do you think they *don't* trust you?" 

Death had been in Aramis's eyes. 

If it had only been Athos's own, that would've been one thing. Anger can be worked *through*. But Aramis had already been grieving for Porthos — the way, perhaps, Athos should've been, instead of becoming lost — 

Is that why Porthos had made a point of — 

Of *showing* Athos him and Aramis tonight? 

Was he showing Athos the end of their — but. 

They'd never had more than brotherhood. Athos had made sure of that. And he needs to answer d'Artagnan's question. He — "I think," Athos says, slowly and deliberately, "that I've injured their trust in me in some ways. And I think you know precisely how." 

d'Artagnan stiffens — "You've all worked together — and *drunk* together — and *gotten* drunk together —" 

"And singularly failed to have an actual conversation about the fact that I nearly let Porthos die." 

"Since when do *any* of you do *anything* by having *conversations* about it?" 

That — Athos huffs a breath and grins. "You'll note that we're not, precisely, the sort of men one should model oneself on —" 

"Don't *say* that, I — fuck —" d'Artagnan smiles ruefully. "I look up to *all* of you. You're — you're all *exactly* who I want to be, with maybe fewer really *stupid* decisions —" 

Athos huffs again — 

And d'Artagnan grins at him. "I just think — well, *why* do you think they don't trust you? Have they — well, I already know they haven't said a damned thing. Have they *done* anything?" 

And — the smile freezes on Athos's face — 

"Oh. They *have*? *What* did they do?" 

"No — no." 

"*Tell* me —" 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"I don't want — we can't have *secrets*, Athos! We can't — if — if we *are* a family..." And d'Artagnan looks at him so *earnestly* — and then he growls and leans forward again. "*No*. No, we *are* a family. You said it, and you meant it, and Aramis and Porthos have *been* saying it practically since day *one* —" 

"They — they care for you very deeply —" 

"I *know* it! And I know they love *you*! So what *exactly* did they —" 

"You... know they're making love tonight." 

d'Artagnan blinks. "Yes? I... I thought they were going to do it right on the *table* before you showed up at that other inn —" 

"I — they — I don't even remotely want to talk about this —" 

"Do it *anyway*!" 

"d'Artagnan." 

"Don't — give me the *ordering* voice, Athos! You just said that *whatever* this is made you feel like they don't actually trust you, or — maybe that they don't care for you? Both?" 

Athos turns *away* — 

"So it's both. So you have *talk* to me, and then — God help us all, but maybe we *do* have to have a bloody conversation! *Without* drinking." 

That — Athos huffs again. "Did you plan to remove all the alcohol from France?" 

"I will give you all *head* injuries in your *sleep* —" 

"That's quite dangerous —" 

"And then bring us all to a *reformer's* church —" 

"That's diabolical." 

"And lock us in for *hours* until — fuck, Athos, just say *something*." 

He doesn't want to. 

That — 

That doesn't matter, in matters of bravery and — brotherhood. "Porthos... used to proposition me. A great deal," he says, and waits. 

d'Artagnan just nods. 

Athos blinks. "That... doesn't surprise you?" 

"Well... no? I mean, we talked about it earlier? But it wasn't a surprise then, either. He obviously loves you." 

"You... truly don't find all of this... buggery..." Athos has no idea how to finish that sentence. 

d'Artagnan *looks* at him. "Farm country isn't... I don't know, some whole other *sphere*. It's not like I never *saw* it before." 

"I... *where* did you see it?" 

*That* gets a blush —

"Yes...?" 

And an extended interlude of d'Artagnan cleaning his fingernails with his knife — 

"Really." 

"I had... friends, Athos. Some of them were better than others," d'Artagnan says, and smiles ruefully down at the table. 

"You must miss them very much." 

"Yes and no." 

Athos raises an eyebrow. 

d'Artagnan gives him a rueful look. "I miss their scents, the feel of their hugs, the sounds of their laughter — all of that and *more*. But they wouldn't be very happy about what I've been up to down here, and... I couldn't take that. Not really." 

Athos nods thoughtfully. "They wouldn't see... *enough* of the good in what we've all been doing." 

"Exactly —" 

"And you need the pride of others?" 

d'Artagnan looks at him. "At least as much as you do." 

Athos coughs — and smiles, looking away. 

"So, about that changed subject —" 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"Why is it so much of a surprise to you that I'm *not* surprised that Porthos would've tried — he said he tried a *lot* —" 

"I." Athos huffs again. "Does the concept of a personal topic mean anything —" 

"Yes, it does, but not when it impacts my family," d'Artagnan says, stalwart and just a little viciously. "*You* said the problem was sexual. So?" 

Athos turns away — 

"Athos —" 

"I... always said no." 

"Yes, he —" 

"I said no... even when I didn't want to." 

d'Artagnan's breath hitches, finally. 

It feels like a 'finally'. 

Athos isn't altogether positive that it *should* — 

Should never matters for such things. "I said 'no' often for the most cowardly of reasons —" 

"Like — like what?" 

It's a curious thing, but it's always been easier to discuss his own cowardice while looking another man in the eye. Athos turns back to d'Artagnan. "I knew that if I allowed sex — no." 

d'Artagnan raises his eyebrows. 

Athos smiles wryly. "I knew that it would never be 'only' sex between Porthos and myself. I knew that I would never be able to stop myself from making love to him — with him, if at all possible. I knew that I would... break, to at least a certain extent, if he showed any sort of welcome for that behaviour —" 

"Break —" 

"Wait, please." 

d'Artagnan frowns *hard* — 

And Athos smiles — terribly, he knows. "There are times when I've thought myself nothing more than a poorly-fashioned vessel for my thoughts and dreams and memories and..." He sneers. "Emotions —" 

"And you thought touching Porthos would break your vessel and — look, Athos, I'm reasonably sure that that's what sex is *supposed* to do." 

"Not when you have secrets to keep." 

"What bloody — didn't we just bloody *establish* —" 

"d'Artagnan. The fact that I care for you deeply and consider you my — family does not mean that I wish to speak to you about everything that lives within me." 

d'Artagnan — grunts. 

And does a terrible job of hiding his hurt. His — 

And Athos has never understood this properly, this — 

This *assumption* people make that one man's desire to keep his secrets to himself is equivalent to that man desiring to *hurt* another man — 

To do anything but *protect* that — 

But he can say that. "d'Artagnan —" 

"No, I — I don't think we have anything else to say to each other —" 

Fuck. "Wait, please —" 

"*Why*?" 

There is nothing worthy about the part of Athos which wants to point out that d'Artagnan is still seated, still looking at him, still *searching* him with *hope* — 

Athos squeezes his eyes shut — no. 

No. He opens his eyes again, and he *looks* at d'Artagnan, and — "There is such a thing as believing one's secrets are... inherently burdensome —" 

"That's not your decision to make." 

Athos blinks.

d'Artagnan just looks at him, bruised and steady and — hard. 

And — all right. "I don't understand what you mean by —" 

"*You* don't get to *decide* what's a burden for someone *else*, Athos." 

Athos opens his mouth — and closes it. 

d'Artagnan raises his eyebrows again. "Do you have any more bullshit beliefs for me to clear up?" 

Athos frowns. "I... don't understand how you can —" 

"For fuck's sake, you arsehole, how *dare* you look at the man who was *supposedly* your best *fucking* friend for nearly a *year* before Aramis joined you, and then just made Aramis a part of your life, too — because I'm betting *you* didn't have any part in that —" 

"I —" 

"How fucking *dare* you look at that man and then say 'oh, no, he's definitely too *weak* to handle my *pain*?" 

"No —" 

"No? Then what? He's too sensitive? Too *delicate*? *What*?" 

Athos growls and turns away. 

He can still see d'Artagnan cross his legs and his arms and *look* at him out of the corner of his eye. 

He — can still see. 

And that. 

That's perhaps something he hasn't done? 

Is that a question? 

And what, exactly, can he say to d'Artagnan at this point, other than the truth?

What can he *offer* other than the sick *churn* of where he'd been five years ago, in hopes that... what?

d'Artagnan will tell him 'no, I apologize, you were right all along, Athos, that *is* too much to share. I think I'll go vomit in the alley now and never speak to you again'?" 

Athos chokes on a laugh that gets no farther than the back of his throat. 

It's what he deserves. 

It's what he's earned. 

It's — 

Had he truly *ever* believed that he would be allowed a forever like this? 

An endless time — until one enemy of the Crown or another finally killed him — where he could be accepted *enough*? 

And... loved. 

Despite — 

Not everything.

Not ever everything. 

Athos breathes — and discovers that he's *gripping* at his own face with one hand — 

That he's — 

He drops his hand, and he stares at d'Artagnan — 

"You look like you're about to lose your *mind* —" 

"And if I tell you that I already have, d'Artagnan? That I already did, irrevocably, five years ago?" 

d'Artagnan frowns. "That was before you became a Musketeer —" 

"That was when I walked in on my beautiful, beloved wife — the woman I loved more than anyone or anything in this world, the first woman I had ever *made* love with — standing over the body of my beloved *brother* —" 

"Oh — *shit* —" 

"Anne — though I later learned this was *not* her name — was *painted* in his blood to the elbows, and *splashed* with it all over her chest, her face, her. Her *shoes* —" And Athos hears himself make a nauseated noise, but he won't let himself stop. He won't. "She told me that Thomas had tried to attack her. To *rape* her. It was... absolutely absurd. Or perhaps it wasn't. I don't know —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"I *can't* know, and I have asked myself those questions —" Athos shakes his head once. "I had never known Thomas to treat anyone that way, but who can say? Men are beasts, are we not?" 

"I — I don't —" 

"What I did know was that Anne — 'Anne' had been lying to me constantly for the months of our acquaintance. That she was no noblewoman, that she had never been to many of the places that she had claimed to have visited. There had been too many *inconsistencies*. I had glossed them over. Treated them as *minor*. I found out, later, that Thomas hadn't. 

"That Thomas had *investigated* her, and discovered, once and for all, that she was a fraud." 

"Then — then you know —" 

"I say 'later' so easily. So *innocently*," Athos says — snarls. "I say 'later' as if it doesn't mean 'in the weeks after I had Anne summarily hanged'." 

"Oh, God — oh, God, *Athos* —" 

"I don't — I can't — there's nothing to say to this, so, please, do *not* try. Of course I never thought Porthos weak. Of course I never considered Aramis *unworthy* of my *friendship*." Athos snarls again and tosses back his wine. 

"You... thought they'd judge you." 

"Like you are." 

"Athos..." 

Athos looks at d'Artagnan, with his eyebrows up. "Don't we all desire time and comfort in the sun? Don't we all *need* that sometimes? Brother?" 

d'Artagnan — flinches. 

Fuck — "I — I apologize —" 

d'Artagnan holds up a hand — 

"Are you waving off my apology?" 

"No. I'm. I'm — I'm *pausing* you, so I can think." 

"What is there to *think* —" 

"For God's sake, Athos, *shut* it for a moment, I just — *fuck*," d'Artagnan says, and laughs ruefully, covering his own face with one hand and — 

And shuddering. 

With disgust?

It must be. 

It *must* — 

And then d'Artagnan drops his hand again. "All right, no, no, I understand why you can't really deal with me being quiet — or *you* being quiet —" d'Artagnan stops himself and shakes his head, and then he leans forward and carefully, deliberately, takes Athos's hand in his own. 

And squeezes. 

He — 

Athos frowns. "You need not —" 

"I'm doing it because I want to, and because I need to. I need to touch you right now, because I can't — I can't imagine going through all that and *surviving*, much less surviving and still being a decent human being." 

Athos — stares. 

"And I think — I think that's where you're... messing up. I think that's..." d'Artagnan shakes his head again. "No one can imagine this, you know? No one. No one thinks 'oh, the reason he doesn't want to go back to his old home is because he watched the love of his life murder his *actual* brother there' —" 

"I didn't —" 

"You know what I *mean*. I — don't you?" And d'Artagnan searches him. "It — it *is* too much, Athos. It's too much to *guess*. Especially since we all already knew you were a drunken aristocrat, and you'd done *everything* to make *everyone* think that *that* was why you weren't living in those circles anymore. You — you made us think you were being *selfish*." 

"I *am* —" 

"I think, *maybe*, there's a difference between being selfish and being... a broken vessel," d'Artagnan says, and smiles ruefully. 

Athos stares at him. 

He — 

He... no. "No. No —" 

"Athos —" 

"*No* —" 

"*Athos* —" 

"You won't — you're *excusing* me, and I won't —" 

"Let me?" 

"Exactly —" 

"It's not your choice," d'Artagnan says, simple and steady and — hard. His eyes are clear, and focused on Athos's, and not even Athos's glare — 

Not even Athos's *stare* — but. 

But. 

d'Artagnan knows the secrets behind it now. 

There is nothing for him to fear, save for a man who is too quick to judgment — no. *No* — 

"*d'Artagnan* —" 

"I know. You expected to be hated for this. For — either not cutting off your wife's lies before they could hurt anyone, or for having her hanged instead of trying to figure out more of the story —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"*Do* you actually question yourself, Athos? Do you actually lie up at night and think: 'What if my brother, the man I'd known all my life, since we were boys, had done that?' Or do you *make* yourself do that because you think you should?" 

Athos — hears himself make a sound. 

d'Artagnan nods. "I know a little about that. About the choices we do and don't make, and how sometimes people die because of them," he says, and looks down. 

And frowns. 

And swallows. 

Oh — "d'Artagnan..." 

"It makes you short-sighted, I think. Grief does, I mean. No, well, I *know*. It makes it hard to see, well, a *lot* of things. I know it took me... it took until Aramis was this close to stabbing *me* for saying something a *little* uncomplimentary about Porthos —" 

"I did mean to warn you about doing that around him —" 

d'Artagnan snorts. "You realize literally *every* other man in the regiment did that, right? I mean — every one? Some of them twice?" 

Athos smiles ruefully. "I'm not always so short-sighted... I believe you might've taken my warning a bit more seriously." 

d'Artagnan inhales sharply and *looks* at Athos — 

Looks *hard* *into* Athos — 

"Yeah. I would've." 

Athos swallows and nods. "Tell me... tell me what grief made it hard for you to see." 

"Oh — Aramis and Porthos. The way they had been with me. The way they had *taken* me in — and the way I'd taken it for granted. That their acceptance and help and protection and everything else would just *be* there for me." 

And not mine? "d'Artagnan, neither of them would've cared for you bowing and scraping very much —" 

"No, I know *that*, but..." d'Artagnan sips his wine and licks his lips. "They took me in. They *made* me their family, and treated me that way, and I just... acted like it was normal. Because if I didn't, then I'd have to deal with the fact that I didn't have a father anymore, and I couldn't. 

"I couldn't do that." 

Athos turns their hands — 

Twines their fingers together and *grips* — 

"Can you do that now?" 

"I really don't know," d'Artagnan says, and his grip is reflexively strong, but not much more than that. "I know I can't — can't really go home. For a lot of reasons." He snorts painfully and takes another drink. A longer one, this time. 

"d'Artagnan, you have nothing to be ashamed of." 

"I know that, most of the time," he says, and he's not really looking at anything or anyone in *this* room. "I even know that — that Aramis and Porthos know perfectly well what I was doing, and what I was failing to do, and *why*." 

"*Good* —" 

"They're really — they're *good* at that sort of thing, when it's not for themselves, I think. Good at taking care of... well."

"d'Artagnan, you must understand —" 

"It — it all goes back to what I want, I think." 

Athos frowns. "Yes?" 

And d'Artagnan turns to look at him, smiling young and — sweet. "I look up to you. Even more now, really —" 

"No —" 

"Shut it," he says, easy and calm and still smiling. "I just. I want this life. I want to be a Musketeer, just like the three men I love most in the world." 

Athos grunts — 

d'Artagnan shrugs. "I'll do anything for it, and — and I think I *will* get it —" 

"You will. You *will*." 

For a moment, d'Artagnan gives him a hard and hot and *hungry* look — 

Athos can't keep himself from squeezing d'Artagnan's hand *harder* — 

The look in d'Artagnan's eyes gets hotter — and he nods, making Athos want to — 

Making Athos deeply *unsure* of what he wants — 

Until d'Artagnan pulls *back*, taking his hand away, and Athos realizes... that it wasn't that. 

Athos pulls his own hand back and makes a fist under the table, feeling, dark, greedy, loathsome — 

"I lie awake nights," d'Artagnan says, after a long moment. "I ask myself: Was the price worth it? My father's life for grand adventures and endless excitement and never-ending wine and women and *men* of custom?" 

Athos tries not to *cough*, but — "*No*, you mustn't —" 

"I lie awake nights and ask myself about the farm, and the rents not coming in, and the people on my land who are doing God knows what — they weren't doing well when my father and I *left* to *come* here!

"I lie awake nights, and then I wake up and Constance is right there to smile at me, and make *promises* with her smiles, and — and *more* than that, *somehow*, even though she's completely appropriate. I teach her weapons and I touch her beautiful body as carefully and appropriately as *I* can, and it's all a part of *this*, what I can't..." d'Artagnan shakes his head. "Sorry, I'm rambling." 

"It's — all right." 

d'Artagnan *looks* at him. 

Athos looks back. "I was under the impression that families had conversations with each other, from time to time." 

d'Artagnan's expression softens dramatically. 

It — 

"Athos..." 

"Yes?" 

"I don't just lie awake at night to berate myself, you know." 

Oh. "No?" 

d'Artagnan looks at Athos *hungrily* — 

Athos clenches his fist *tightly* — 

And then d'Artagnan... laughs. "Or maybe I mean I don't just berate myself for one thing. If you're not going to... for your *best friend*..." d'Artagnan shakes his head. 

"What — what do you want?" 

d'Artagnan looks at him again, eyebrows up this time. "You know —" 

"Please — speak plain." 

d'Artagnan frowns and looks thoughtful for a moment, looks curious and hungry in *different* ways — and then he nods. "I want you, Athos. I want all of you, but you were the one I fixated on. Probably because I knew exactly how hard it would be to actually get to *touch* you." d'Artagnan snorts. "We're not so different, in some ways." 

"I — Aramis said that once, to me. In similar circumstances." 

d'Artagnan's expression of raw shock is enough for — much. 

Athos smiles wryly. "Did he speak, at all, about how *long* he'd desired Porthos but had done nothing to —" 

"Oh — *oh*." And d'Artagnan blinks and looks thoughtful for long moments. 

Athos leaves him to it — 

Athos does nothing of the kind. 

Athos studies his mouth, and his cheekbones, and the long, unmarked lines of his throat — 

Porthos had shown him — 

Shown him so *much* — 

"Athos..." 

"Tonight... tonight, Porthos and Aramis began making love in front of me," Athos says, and looks up, into d'Artagnan's eyes. 

d'Artagnan's *confused* eyes. "Yeah? They did that —" 

"It was pointed, with me. It was... Porthos wasn't *only* making love to Aramis. He was... showing me." 

"I — oh."

"Yes, and —" 

"And that's why — that why you think — shit." 

"Yes." 

d'Artagnan frowns. "Athos, why do you think he wasn't just, you know, making another *proposition*?" 

Athos blinks. 

d'Artagnan raises his eyebrows. 

"d'Artagnan. He's never — he'd never... not like that." 

"Well, did he ever have the *opportunity*? I mean, they did it with *me* before you got there, kind of —" 

"What — what?" 

"Aramis *said* he wanted to make love with you —" 

"He —" 

"And that he wanted us all *together*." 

Athos — stops. Just. 

He breathes and — 

"He was drunk —" 

"*Athos*. Since when does that make a difference with *any* of you people?" 

"What. What did Porthos say?" 

d'Artagnan blinks — and then his expression softens in the precise wrong way. 

"I see —" 

"No — *no*, Athos. It's just that that's when you *got* there. Porthos was — was *teasing*, and eating my hazelnuts, and I was busily trying not to *choke* on the really *incredible* images in my head... and then you were there." 

And the desire to interrogate further — 

To find out, once and for all — *somehow* — if Porthos had — 

If he'd wanted — 

If he'd *ever* wanted — 

"You're... it really hurt you when they were... doing whatever they were doing in front of you. I mean, obviously so, but —" 

"I... spent too much time — I shouldn't have watched." 

"It hurt you that Porthos — or both of them? — *meant* for you to watch," d'Artagnan says, and his voice is — painfully gentle. 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"And — it was because you thought it was both them saying 'you can't have this' and 'we've decided to hurt you', even though that's nothing like *anything* either of them would do —" 

"You haven't — Aramis isn't always entirely honourable in his affairs." 

d'Artagnan raises his eyebrows. "And Porthos?" 

"Can be led by Aramis — we don't need to talk about this any further —" 

"You think you hurt *Porthos* by refusing him, and you *know* you hurt both of them by hesitating before you helped Porthos, and you think *this* is how they'd come back at you. *This*," d'Artagnan says, slowly and — not gently, at all. "When they both have the option of just punching you in the face and asking Treville to assign them to ride with someone else. Someone they could, presumably, trust." 

"Our unit is unmatched —" 

"But would it be? Really? If the morale had gotten *that* bad?" 

"Aramis and Porthos are professionals —" 

"Are they? Because you just spent the past several minutes describing them as — as vindictive *children*, Athos." 

Athos blinks — 

And breathes — 

And... thinks. 

Just — forces himself to think, to — 

To do nothing *but* think, not even drink, because — 

Because the sense of what d'Artagnan is saying is impeccable, and *he* is the one being a child, and — "I've. Wanted Porthos very badly." 

"I've picked that up," d'Artagnan says, and smiles ruefully. "And Aramis?" 

"His beauty is..." Athos shakes his head. "He's an easy man to discount. To... think less of, *because* of his beauty and all of the ways he uses it. He encourages people to do just that, and he uses *that*, and I... 

"Watching him utterly destroy his enemies — and the enemies of the Crown — in those ways has been so very..." 

Athos swallows. "I wasn't expecting him to offer his friendship to me once it became clear that Porthos — who it was always clear *enough* that he desired — would gladly offer *his*, and all of the rest of himself besides —" 

"You were jealous." 

The word... bites. 

The smallness of it. 

The *unworthiness* — 

"You were jealous, and you let it make you think that you'd never get anything like what you wanted from *either* of them —" 

"Stop." 

"I don't think I should, Athos." 

"No, you shouldn't, because this is precisely the sort of excoriation I *deserve*, but..." And Athos lifts his tumbler of wine and studies it for a long moment — and then he sets it back down and shakes his head. "I've taken your points." 

"Are you *sure*?" 

Athos smiles at d'Artagnan grimly and then prepares to tick off points on his fingers. "One, I was entirely wrongheaded in my approach to dealing with my grief about my wife and my brother. Though this was understandable, it; Two, led to me being deceptive and standoffish with the men I loved and desired, and who loved and desired me, and; Three, those men came to believe me both arrogant and uninterested, and, while they were intuitive enough to know that my past was a dark one, they had no way to know said darkness was not my own doing and so; Four, when the darkness nearly caused me to allow Porthos to die, Aramis's rage and disgust toward me were so great that I assumed they were shared by Porthos, and all-consuming enough to persist, thus leading to; Five, my assumption that they would... tease me with my desire and love for them, that they would wound me in that way instead of doing or saying... nearly anything else. Yes?" 

"*Yes* —" 

"There is one thing that does not fit within your model of events, d'Artagnan." 

"Oh — *what*, Athos?" And d'Artagnan is glaring at him. 

Athos smiles ruefully. "Why don't they hate me?" 

"What?" 

"Why don't they *loathe* me." 

"Athos —" 

"They have, as we've established, no reason whatsoever to have sympathy for my hesitation, and no reason to understand that hesitation as anything other than a fit of aristocratic pique —" 

"*Athos*. They bloody *know* you." 

Athos looks at d'Artagnan. Just — 

"*Yes*, even *without* that — that awful *secret*. They don't know what the hell made you shut down and lose your mind like that, but they know you *love* Porthos, and would do anything to keep him *safe* —" 

"I — he. He's my. Family," Athos says, growling and ignoring the wetness of his own eyes, the — loss of control.

"I wonder, though," d'Artagnan says, low and quiet as — he drinks. 

"What. What do you wonder?"

"I wonder if he — if they know how *much* you love them," d'Artagnan says, and stares into his tumbler. "I wonder if they can feel it. If they've ever — I wonder if they'd ever let you out of their sight if they could avoid it." And he drinks — heavily. 

And pours himself more. 

And drinks that. 

And pours himself more — no. 

Not this. Athos gently takes the bottle away from d'Artagnan, and then grips the wrist of the hand holding the tumbler. "d'Artagnan." 

"Why are you stopping me." 

Because I don't want you to grow into me. "Because I believe you're operating under... a fallacy." 

d'Artagnan gives him a look that is — too bleak for him. Too dark and old and — 

"I can't. I can't give you what you need," Athos blurts — 

And d'Artagnan snorts. "Why the bloody hell do you think I'm *drinking*?" 

"I meant — I don't think that the two of us making love, even though I *badly* *want* it, would be a good thing for you." 

d'Artagnan looks at him like he's *mad*. 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"Athos. How many *times* do we have to go over the 'not your bloody *choice*' point?"

Athos — blinks. "I... several. Apparently." 

d'Artagnan snorts. 

And coughs — 

And *snickers* — 

And stands up, leaving too much money on the table from the purse they've been sharing, and — 

Leaves. 

Athos isn't certain what to do next. 

A large part of him — he can only hope that it isn't the largest — wants to simply sit here and drink. Finish the bottle, use the excuse of the 'extra' money to drink more, and then — 

Drink more. 

Drink until tonight is hazy, at best. 

Until the stings of it are — 

Are. 

Some part of him is, however, gathering the excess coins, tucking them away, and moving. 

Moving quickly, following — 

Which way would d'Artagnan have *gone*? 

He checks the alley, just because — 

And finds d'Artagnan glaring direfully at his own cock while he pisses. 

Copiously, by the look of the puddle forming. 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"You know, it would've been a lot easier to make a dramatic exit if I hadn't apparently had to piss all the piss in the *world*." 

"Hm." Athos says, and, dutifully, looks at the puddle again. And then looks up. "I feel the lack of the rest of our family again, if only because *they* would have an appropriate joke right now." 

d'Artagnan snorts. "Do you *really* want to use the word 'appropriate' that way?" 

"I... no. And never again. And I'd like us to both drink heavily so we can forget that I ever used it that way in the first place —" 

"And maybe forget the whole conversation?" 

Athos — shudders. And accepts. "I've spent a lot of time trying to forget." 

"It doesn't work." 

"No." 

"It just turns you into an *arsehole*, in case you haven't bloody *noticed*." 

"I've — picked that up —" 

"Why am I still *pissing*?" 

"It might have something to do with the wine?" 

"I didn't *drink* that — *God*, it feels like I have a *lake* inside me —" 

"I want to suck your cock," Athos says, immediately realizing that it's the worst possible time — 

"Um." 

"Not. Not *while* you're pissing —" 

"But. The idea occurred to you *because* I was —" 

"No! No. The idea occurred — long since." 

d'Artagnan looks at him. And continues to piss. 

And continues to piss — 

And continues to — hm. 

"d'Artagnan, did you just not relieve yourself for the prior three *days*?" 

"Well, um. Now I think nervousness is playing a role?" 

Athos — "I... can understand that." And — "Very well, as a matter of fact," he says, turning to the wall, undoing his trousers and breeches — 

"Oh, God." 

"Mm?" 

"Just..." 

"Yes?" And Athos starts to piss, and — well, he *had* been looking at d'Artagnan for this conversation, but etiquette really demands — 

"Oh... fuck... bloody — *fuck* —" 

"d'Artagnan, are you all —" 

"You're standing there with your dick in your hand!" 

Athos blinks. And *peers* over — 

d'Artagnan is no longer pissing. He is, however, increasingly — and increasingly impressively — erect. And glaring at him. 

For... 

For reasons Athos can't begin to guess at. 

But. He can *ask*. "d'Artagnan, *why* are you angry at this moment?" 

"Because I'm *hard*!"

"Is that... my... fault?" 

"I'd piss *on* you if I wasn't too hard for it! I'm — fuck — of course it's your fault!" 

"I. But — d'Artagnan, you have me at something of a loss —" 

"And you're just — I'm going to have a weird, awful *fixation* for people speaking *ridiculously* properly while pissing in alleys —" 

"Hm." 

"*What*?" 

"Are you?" 

d'Artagnan stares at him. 

Athos raises an eyebrow. 

And then d'Artagnan uses his speed, his wonderful *speed*, and he's right there, slammed against Athos's body, wrestling Athos's *unresisting* body —

And gripping Athos's cock — 

Gripping — 

*Squeezing* — 

Athos *grunts* — 

"That didn't sound very *proper*, Athos," d'Artagnan says — pants against Athos's ear as he *strokes* Athos's cock, which has mercifully *stopped* pissing — 

As he curls *around* Athos from the side in a hot, sweaty, half-wild gangle of strong limbs and weapons which probably shouldn't be treated this way — 

"That didn't sound —" And d'Artagnan growls. "Go on. Say *something*." 

"I'd rather kiss you," Athos blurts — 

"Oh — fuck — *fuck*," d'Artagnan says, squeezing Athos *tightly* — 

"I'd — I'd bite your mouth —" 

"Athos —" 

"I've thought about it, dreamed —" 

"Oh, *God*," d'Artagnan says, driving his hard cock against Athos's hip once, again — 

"I want to touch you —" 

"*Athos* —" 

"I want to... make you spend —" 

"You — you — you will if you keep *talking* —" 

"Please let me *touch* you," Athos says, and he knows that was more of a growl, more of an *order*, *inappropriate* — 

But what's appropriate here? 

What — 

What should be striven for, when one is gasping from the *staggering* loss of a young man's — a young *man's* — hand from around one's cock — 

When one is *rejoicing* because that young man had only released you so that he could pull back enough that *you* could — 

So that *Athos* could — 

Touch. 

Hold. 

Shape with his fingers, measure and stroke and worship with his calluses as d'Artagnan drops his head to Athos's shoulder and sobs and whimpers and *bites* in against Athos's brassard — 

"Thank you for this," Athos says, and braces himself — both of them, truly — against the wall with his free hand — 

"I — I — *please* —" 

"Thank you — thank you for letting me *touch* you —" 

"Oh *God* —" 

"Even if you never — but you're already touching, and your hand is so warm, so strong, I — I've never felt a man —" 

"*Athos* —" 

"I'm almost certainly talking too much —" 

"Don't *stop* —" 

"I'll be very flattered if you do grow fixated on my voice, my speech patterns, my — my *diction* —" 

d'Artagnan coughs —

Laughs breathlessly — 

*Moans* — "Oh, but — you've never — never with any man?" And d'Artagnan changes his grip on Athos's cock — 

And changes it again — 

And changes it *again* — 

"d'Artagnan, I — are you *more* self-conscious because of that?" 

d'Artagnan's laugh for that is nervous, *hungry* — "*Yes*. I want — what if I send you running back to *women*?" 

"What if I do the same to you? I've certainly never done *this*," Athos says, and *strokes*, "from this angle —" 

d'Artagnan whimpers — "That's so *hot* —" 

"Is it? Why?" 

"I — I — it just *is* — please, again —" 

Athos obeys. "Do you like to be made love to by the woefully inexperienced and inadequate?" 

"That... why did you say that *seductively*?" 

"What...?" 

d'Artagnan laughs, bright and sweet and — wonderful. So — 

Athos can't keep from moaning, from stroking d'Artagnan faster — 

"*Oh* —" 

"Yes?" 

"Do — do *that*," d'Artagnan says, laughing again, laughing so — 

"Please keep laughing." 

d'Artagnan *gasps* a laugh. "*What*?" 

"I love — please, your laughter — I'll do anything to hear you laugh," Athos says, and strokes faster, faster — 

"Unh — *ungh* — oh, Athos, fuck, I want — I want to give you what you want, but —" And d'Artagnan laughs breathlessly again, needily — "I can't — this isn't — *funny*," he says, and *licks* Athos's brassard — "Let me suck you. Let me — let me suck you off —" 

"Please let me have your voice, instead," Athos says, and tries rubbing the thick, slick head of d'Artagnan's cock the way he rubs his own — 

"Ohn — so hard, so —" 

"Too — is that too much?" 

"Please don't stop! Please don't stop!" 

"I must have your voice, I must — you're so *alive* —" 

And d'Artagnan makes a noise like a laugh has been *caught* within him, caught and *strangled* — 

"*d'Artagnan* —" 

And then d'Artagnan groans, loud and shameless, shamelessly *loud* —

He bites the brassard *again* — 

And whimpers, again and again and again as he spends on the ground and into Athos's hand. 

It. 

It isn't. 

Athos hasn't ended anything, he doesn't think. 

There is no sense of impending — 

"Oh, fuck — oh, *fuck*..."

Oh, no — "d'Artagnan —" 

"I've — I've left *tooth*-marks in your *brassard*," he says, with the same tone one would expect if he'd left tooth-marks in a royal personage. 

Which is deeply confusing — 

Deeply, *deeply* — and then d'Artagnan starts to pull *away*, and panic allows Athos to *think* again: 

d'Artagnan doesn't yet have his commission. 

d'Artagnan hasn't been *with* them for even six *months* — 

Athos *stops* d'Artagnan with his grip on the man's cock. 

He *grunts* — "Athos —" 

"Shh. You're worried about... sullying me? Somehow?" 

"I — *yes*!" 

"Please remember how many scars were *already* all over my leathers, d'Artagnan —" 

"Those were from — from *honourable* —" 

"Do you consider this to be dishonourable?" And, without d'Artagnan clutching him quite so tightly, Athos can turn enough to *face* his — 

His lover. 

Please. "Is this... wrong?" 

"*No*!" 

"Then..." And Athos offers a shrug in the moonlight. 

d'Artagnan stares. 

That... "Have I shocked you?"

"No — *yes* — let me *suck* you!" 

And that... was also far more of an order... "Let's get away from the puddles —" 

"No one ever goes further back in the alleys —" 

"That's because the footpads linger there —" 

"We're bloody *armed*," d'Artagnan says, and grips *Athos's* cock again — 

And *pulls* — 

And — 

Hm. "Did you want a lead for it?" 

"Would you *wear* one?" 

"I've considered such things in the past..." 

d'Artagnan chokes and *stumbles* — 

"Please don't fall in *this* alley —" 

"I should *tackle* you and *ride* you in this alley so we *both* stink of piss and spend and *why* am I more *aroused*?" 

"We could blame it on your youth?" 

d'Artagnan growls — 

And Athos lets himself be thrown against a — relatively — clean patch of wall. "Your vigorous youth?" 

"I'll give you —" And d'Artagnan snorts. "Everything. Starting with this," he says, and drops to his knees with easy grace. Shameless grace. 

Shameless — "d'Artagnan..." 

"Were you planning on stopping me?" And d'Artagnan grips Athos's cock by the base, looks up at him so — 

So *wickedly* — 

So *daringly* — 

"I could always shoot you." 

d'Artagnan nods mock-thoughtfully. "That's *an* option, yes, but it won't lead to you spending. At least, I hope not," he says, and opens his — 

"Your mouth is beautiful," Athos blurts — 

d'Artagnan grunts again — and licks his lips — 

And licks him. 

Licks — 

Licks him all — 

And pulls *back* — 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"There was still a little piss on your dick..." 

"Fuck — I'm sorry —" 

"I'm not," d'Artagnan says, and winks, and takes him — 

*Takes* him — 

Athos groans and closes his eyes against it, against the sight of those perfect dark lips — 

Stretched — 

Against the sight of d'Artagnan immediately hollowing his *cheeks* with the force of his suction, with the — 

And Athos can feel — 

He can feel everything, every teasing, hungry, *exploratory* swipe of that clever tongue, but — 

He has to see. 

He has to see *this*: d'Artagnan's eyes, black in the moonlight and turned up to his — 

d'Artagnan's flaring nostrils — 

"Do you — do you like my *scent*." 

d'Artagnan's pained and hungry and *lustful* wince as he nods — and begins to bob his head. To — 

To. "Do you like fucking yourself — on my cock — I. *d'Artagnan*." 

And he moans, he moans and nods and fucks himself faster, *takes* himself faster, *uses* Athos for — 

For his own pleasure? 

Like he'd threatened? 

But what if it was a promise? 

What if it were something he desired? Something...

Athos groans helplessly, knees buckling — 

d'Artagnan *catches* him by the hip with his free hand — 

His big, strong — 

To be used that way... 

What pleasures would d'Artagnan take? 

What pleasures has he *learned* to take? 

Is there anything Athos himself could ever teach? 

Just the thought makes him groan again, grunt and *buck* even against d'Artagnan's tight grip, tight *hold* on his hip and cock — 

d'Artagnan's *iron* gaze — 

Athos raises shaking hands and cups d'Artagnan's face, strokes him, pets him — 

And his gaze isn't iron, at all. It — 

So soft — 

Softer than his *mouth*, hotter and sweeter and — 

His eyes are rolling back — 

His lashes are *fluttering* — 

Athos can't stop himself from brushing his thumb across the sweep of them — 

So *soft* — 

And then d'Artagnan moves his hand from around the base of Athos's cock and *yanks* him — 

Deep — 

Athos hears himself *shout* — but then there's no sound, no *meaningful* sound, but the slick, dirty, *constant* thrust of his cock into d'Artagnan's mouth, into d'Artagnan's throat — 

His chopped-off moans — 

His gulps and *swallows* — 

His — 

His fluttering *lashes* — 

Athos's mouth falls open again — 

But he has no idea if he makes another sound before his cock spasms *violently* and he begins to spend, to lose himself — 

All of himself — 

Every — 

And perhaps this is the true end, the real —

The absolute — 

He hasn't *allowed* this to himself, hasn't *given* himself to another person, hasn't allowed another person to — 

"Mmmm, mm —" And d'Artagnan pulls back until just the head is in his mouth, lips and nuzzles and *suckles* — 

Athos cries out and spurts *again* — 

d'Artagnan nods and reaches up to cup Athos's balls, to squeeze — 

To squeeze and — 

And milk and he looks so open, so happy, so — 

So hungry and happy, so — 

And Athos feels himself letting go, letting everything — oh, no — 

He *shoves* d'Artagnan back — 

"Hey —" 

He turns and pisses — 

"Oh — *fuck* —" 

"I — I'm sorry —" 

"No — no, *I* am," d'Artagnan says, utterly incomprehensibly — 

And then his mouth is on —

On Athos's cock again, on him, around — 

He's sucking — 

He's — 

"*d'Artagnan*!" 

His beautiful, long lashes are still *fluttering* — 

He's taking — 

Taking all of Athos's *stale* — 

He's — his arm is moving — 

Athos looks down — and realizes that d'Artagnan is stroking himself fast and *brutally* even as he suckles *urine* from Athos's *cock* and — 

And it *hurts*, but mostly it's the most incredible — 

The most incomprehensible and wild and strange and — 

And he has no more. 

There was barely any — 

It was just that he'd been too hard to finish — 

He doesn't know what he's explaining. 

He doesn't know *who* he's explaining *to*. 

He just knows that d'Artagnan's forehead is *pressed* against his belly as he works himself faster and harder and faster and *harder* — 

He's moaning *desperately* — 

He sounds as though he's *hurting*, as though — 

As though there's something *he* doesn't understand... 

Athos cups his head, cradles it, pets it — 

"Oh, *God* —" 

And his spend smacks Athos's boots in spatter after spurt after spatter — 

"God — *God* —" 

Athos strokes him. "It's all right. It's — you're so very beautiful..." 

"I don't — *fuck* —" 

"I think you rather do..." And Athos smiles down at the top of d'Artagnan's head and strokes the curve of one ear with his thumb. 

d'Artagnan laughs for that, but he doesn't look up, and the laugh itself is a little hysterical. 

"d'Artagnan..." 

"I... I... I don't *do* that. I mean — I never have *before* —" 

"You also don't drink..." 

d'Artagnan takes a hitching breath. 

Another — 

He *moans* — "I want to do it again." 

Athos's cock twitches... really entirely predictably. "I want to let you." 

"All... all of it?" 

"More. Everything." 

d'Artagnan shudders hard. "Athos... have *you* ever...?" 

"I... can definitely say that I've never consumed urine before. My own or anyone else's. But... I'd heard of the... practice." 

"So had *I*. As — as something *deviants* —" 

"There are some — many — who would say anything sexual between the two of us was automatically the act of two deviants." 

"No, I know, but —" 

"It is... extreme." 

"*Yes*, and —" 

"I felt. Very — wanted. Desired." And Athos blushes at his own cowardice — 

But the true punishment is the way d'Artagnan stiffens under his hands. "That. That wasn't what you were going to say." 

He. 

He must not be a coward. 

He will chase d'Artagnan *away* — 

He can't let himself do that. 

Athos tilts d'Artagnan's face up — forcing it, to a certain extent, against all inclination — "I felt loved. There is no deviance in love." 

d'Artagnan stares up at him with wide eyes — 

*Full* eyes — 

Athos's heart *pounds* — and so he says nothing about the last part of that statement being something he'd heard from a heretic they hadn't been able to save from the gibbet — 

No. 

No. "I first heard that from a heretic we — Aramis, Porthos, and I — were forced to watch being executed." 

"Oh — oh, no —" 

"Later that night, Aramis... spoke to us. About God. About his *feelings* about God, and his studies. His lengthy, focused, *detailed* studies. He told us that the heretic was his brother in Christ, and that one day the Church would be run by men like him." 

"I — *really*?" 

"Porthos and I were equally... skeptical." Athos smiles. "Aramis told us to have more faith." 

d'Artagnan bites his lip then, and nods, and stands, looking down at Athos and breathing hotly — 

*Fragrantly* — 

"Oh — fuck — my *breath* —" 

Athos kisses him before he can say another word, pulls him *down* into a kiss that's hard, needy, *needy* — 

There is no deviance in love. 

He will — 

He will try to hold on to that thought, for as long as he can.


	8. In which d'Artagnan keeps his chin up for as long as possible, Aramis isn't a nanny, Hirondelle wishes he were the deaf one, and brotherhood is discussed thoroughly. Among other things.

d'Artagnan holds on to the belief that everything will be fine for an impressively long time, he thinks. 

He'd held on to it through being walked back to his rooms at *Bonacieux's* house — and how long, exactly, will the man tolerate him coming in at all hours?

Reeking of — 

Well, the fact that he *wasn't* reeking of blood and gunpowder last night wasn't actually an improvement on anything, considering. 

(Except for how it was.) 

But — 

He'd held on to the belief that everything was going to be all right, and he'd fallen asleep with a smile on his face — after a *thorough* body- and tooth-washing — and he'd woken up with a smile, too. 

With the memory of the way Athos *hadn't* kissed him in the alley closest to Bonacieux's, but had cupped his face with his hard, strong hand — 

Had *stroked* d'Artagnan's mouth — 

*Stared* at it with wonder and a kind of *hungry* fixation — 

He'd held on through breakfast with Constance, and the simultaneous need to tell her absolutely everything and absolutely *nothing*, to — 

To give *answer* to the queer looks she'd been giving him — 

To be filled *more* by the fact that she *knows* him well enough to know that something was — 

Was *different* — 

He'd held on to the belief that everything was going to be all right — and his smiles — all the way to the garrison, and through being told — again, by multiple people looking out for him, looking to horrify him, or *both* — that the East barracks were definitely haunted, why, just last night the sounds coming from them were loud and inhuman, and had he heard about the blood plague four years ago? 

Eight men had died right there!

He'd heard, a lot, but he'd listened again, and he'd let *go* of his smiles for it, because he knows people need to talk about their dead. 

He knows that very well. 

It takes nearly an hour for him to catch up to *anyone*, and by then it's Aramis, who is smiling dreamily and shooting *perfectly* — as ever — and. 

Wearing one of Porthos's scarves like a collar. 

That. 

That... 

Porthos had told *him* that those scarves used to belong to his late mother, and, considering last night, she'd meant exactly as much to him as d'Artagnan's father meant to him, even though she'd died when Porthos was five. 

It's a little hard to credit that, to a certain extent — five is very young; d'Artagnan wasn't much younger when his own mother had died in childbirth along with d'Artagnan's little sister, and he hardly remembers her, at all — but. 

Maybe that's *because* he'd had a father? 

A good father. 

A father who hadn't tried to have him *killed* — 

And — 

Athos had had a *wife*. He'd known that, but *that* hadn't seemed real, hadn't seemed at *all* possible to credit. 

Is it wrong that it's easier now that he knows she'd hurt him so badly *and* now that he knows that Athos loves him and their — *their*! — brothers? 

Or does that make perfect sense?

Does that make as much sense as it had to drop to his knees? 

To — to *stay* there even once Athos was done? 

Even once he'd started *pissing* — 

But, of course, he'd done more than just *stay*. He'd — 

("It made me feel loved.") 

And — 

("There's no deviance in love.") 

And — he's smiling again, and doing a terrible job of hiding it — 

He doesn't even know if there are any slots open on this range — 

"Something tells me that our young, tender recruit had a *good* night last night..." 

Aramis — d'Artagnan looks up, smiles ruefully, looks down again — "I um. D'you know where Athos... is?" 

"I do indeed. How much is this information worth to you, mm?" And Aramis gazes at him teasingly, *wickedly* — not meanly. 

Not meanly, at all. 

He waggles his *eyebrows* — 

d'Artagnan blushes — "Oh — God, don't do that —" 

Aramis laughs softly and throws an arm over d'Artagnan's shoulders, squeezing him for a moment before saying: "Come, let's go work on your fencing —" 

"Oh, but —" 

"*Because*... friend Athos has gone with friend *Porthos* — and our visitors — to visit with this Ife woman —" 

"What — without — *but* —" 

"I know, I *know*. I was most displeased about this turn of events," Aramis says, and starts to walk them toward the fencing grounds — 

"Did they — Athos left you here to nanny me. Didn't he." He doesn't feel like smiling right now. He — 

He'd thought everything was all right — 

He'd thought — 

"Hmm." Aramis looks him up and down — 

"Aramis —" 

"Correct me if I'm wrong —" 

"*Aramis* —" 

"— but you do not look as though you are in *need* of nannying —" 

"I'm bloody *not* —" 

"— as opposed to being in need of our leader," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. 

d'Artagnan manages to keep himself from rearing back, but — he can't say much more than that. 

Aramis nods. "Athos is... he needs time, sometimes, when something deeply emotional has occurred —" 

"Don't — you're making excuses for him." 

"I —" 

"Did he *tell* you what happened last night?" Did he tell you his secret? 

Aramis touches the tip of his tongue to his upper lip — and then walks them behind a shed. Once in the shadows, he says, "No, but I don't think —" 

"We made love. In — in an alley. After he told me something *horrible* about his past." 

Aramis blinks. "You... he talked about his *past* with you?" 

"I had to bludgeon him into it," d'Artagnan says, and smiles ruefully. "I think. I think maybe you and Porthos were always more gentle?" 

Aramis nods thoughtfully, eyes distant for a long moment. 

"I... I'm not *sure* I should tell you —" 

"You should not," Aramis says, curt and simple — 

"*But*," d'Artagnan says, doggedly, "*he* said that he thought of all of us as his family, as his *brothers*, even though the word makes him flinch —" 

"We have all seen this thing, and — d'Artagnan —" 

"And he also *agreed* with me — eventually and with bad *grace* — that we were keeping too many secrets from each other." 

Aramis opens his mouth — and then nods, and winces. "You are absolutely correct, d'Artagnan. *Brother*. *Little* brother," he says, and smiles wickedly again — 

"Hey —" 

But his smile turns rueful just that quickly. "This — all of this, even without whatever secret he told you — would be enough to make Athos need... space." 

d'Artagnan winces. "And wine?" 

"Perhaps something rather stronger than wine," Aramis says, and smiles *wryly*. 

"Was he — this morning, was he —" 

"He was sober, and close-mouthed, and grim." 

d'Artagnan winces hard — 

"Shh, no, no, little brother," Aramis says, and cups d'Artagnan's face with both hands. "You know this is *better* than his usual state of affairs, yes?" 

That — he does. He does. He nods. 

"And you also know — well. *I* know that it is a *phenomenally* good and *interesting* sign when our leader comes to *us* — Porthos and myself — and says, however stiltedly, however wracked with pain, that he would like to speak with both of us about 'a personal matter' —" 

"*Oh* —" 

"— at our *convenience*." 

"Oh, that's —" d'Artagnan cuts himself off with a *grin*. "That's *perfect*." 

"Ah, yes? The horrible secret is not so horrible?" 

"No, it's — it's *awful*," d'Artagnan says, "and — and I really want to *spare* him telling you —" 

"Do you think you should?" And Aramis cocks his head, just — a little. 

Just enough that d'Artagnan can see — 

What Athos had seen, maybe. 

What Athos had seen to make him think that Aramis didn't trust him, or — 

But. 

"He... he thinks you don't trust him. Sometimes, I mean." 

Aramis winces. "d'Artagnan, do not —" 

"No — you should know. And you should... Look, I just — you're my family. All of you are. You're my *only* family, and, it's like I told Athos last night — all of you, but especially you and Porthos, have done all these incredible things to make me feel like *part* of you, even when I've been a *ridiculous* arsehole —" 

"You may have noticed that we are partial —" 

"Please — please be serious? For a moment?" 

Aramis parts his lips for a moment — and then firms them tight, and nods. "You are *my* family, d'Artagnan. You may talk to me about anything, at any time, for any *reason*. I will admit that it took me longer than it took our Porthos to see this —" 

"That's because it took Porthos *seconds*!" 

Aramis *coughs* into one fist — he leaves the other hand cupping d'Artagnan's face. "I joke; I tease him about his terrible taste in people — and sometimes it truly is terrible. But the *real* truth is that his heart is large, and open, and *unstinting*. If you show him kindness, and worth, and bravery, he will give you everything he *can*. And if you *keep* showing him these things..." Aramis shrugs. "He has made me a better person solely by being himself." 

"And by being someone you — wanted?" 

Aramis smiles. "As I said, solely by being himself." 

d'Artagnan's cheeks burn. It's not a surprise that Aramis has more *aplomb* for *this* conversation — d'Artagnan thinks the man would have more aplomb if he were naked and *drunk* — but... 

It would be nice to have *something* to work with other than his own bullheadedness. 

For *once*. Without that something, though — he'll just carry on. "Aramis, I..." Or try to. It all seemed a lot easier when Aramis *wasn't* being serious and open and — 

"All is well, d'Artagnan. I will listen to you." 

"And. And let me tell secrets?" 

Aramis smiles and strokes d'Artagnan's cheek with his callused thumb. "I am not altogether certain this is wise or honourable, but... we are in agreement that it is *dangerous* for families to keep secrets from each other." 

"*Yes*. And — I mean. You and Porthos — I know you made love last night." 

Aramis nods. 

"For the *first* time, even though — I mean, how long *have* you wanted him?" 

"From the very beginning," Aramis says, and smiles *softly*. 

"That! *That*. You could've *had* him if you weren't keeping secrets —" 

"No." 

"What? But —" 

"*I* could not have had him, little brother," Aramis says, and strokes d'Artagnan's cheek again. "The man — the person who was *barely* more than a boy, in his heart and mind — could have had him. And then, almost certainly, lost him again." 

"Oh — *no* —" 

"Yes," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. "Because I would've run from him and his ability to pull the *truth* of me from all of my lies — physically, like our Athos is doing with you right now — and also in other, far more damaging and cowardly ways." 

"You're not a bloody *coward*!" 

"I needed time to grow accustomed to having friends, d'Artagnan. *True* friends, who would only let me get *away* with running and hiding when they knew I desperately needed to do so, and then only *temporarily*. True friends, who would always seek for me, and let me know that *they* knew when I was hiding... whether or not they planned to *pull* me from hiding in that moment. 

"I needed time to learn that I loved this thing, and needed it, and would do anything and everything to have it every moment of every day."

d'Artagnan frowns. "This *much* time?" 

"I think you are discounting the pleasure I have taken in being Porthos's *friend*, little brother... but, you are also correct in that I *was* ready sooner than this." 

"Then —" 

Aramis raises his free hand. "You first...?" 

d'Artagnan frowns. 

Aramis grins. "Do you *not* want to tell me secrets?" 

"I — of course I do —" 

"I will, of course, respect your desire for silence —" 

"Oh — sod *off* —" 

"Decorous and —"

d'Artagnan shoves Aramis back against the shed wall —

Aramis laughs — and hugs him. 

And d'Artagnan catches himself hugging Aramis back with desperate and maybe *bruising* force. Just — he. 

He hadn't known how *badly* he'd needed exactly this. 

*Exactly* this. 

Aramis kisses his cheek. "Little brother. Tell me secrets." 

"It's. It's. We should've looked *into* his past after we knew about that manor, you know? More than just —" d'Artagnan shakes his head and hugs Aramis tighter. "The reason why he flinches all the time is that he *had* a brother, a younger brother —" 

"Oh —" 

"And Athos's *wife* *murdered* him —" 

"Oh, *God* —" 

"And — he didn't *see* it, but he walked in on the aftermath, walked in on her just — covered in his brother's *blood* —" 

Aramis forces d'Artagnan back, searches him — "This... this happened in that house." 

d'Artagnan swallows and nods. 

"What — where *is* she?" 

"He had her hanged." 

"Oh..." Aramis winces, and says a prayer in Latin. "Does... does Athos know *why* —" 

"He knows what she said, which is that his brother — Thomas — tried to rape her. He didn't believe her. He couldn't believe her, but he's spent the past five years —" 

"Taking himself to task for this? Wondering if he was too hasty?" 

d'Artagnan nods. "He was there — at that manor — just a few weeks ago." 

"What?" 

"I had to pull him *out* of it. He was blind drunk. He said — he said he'd seen *her*. The manor was burning to the ground —" d'Artagnan growls and shakes his head. "He made me keep it a secret from you and Porthos —" 

*Aramis* growls — "I — no. More. Tell me more." 

"I tried to comfort him last night — I'm not good at comfort. But he said himself that he'd found out that his wife hadn't even given him her true name, not ever, and that she'd told countless other lies while they were together."

Aramis nods grimly. "But, presumably, none of the lies were that... severe." 

"*Aramis* —" 

"No, d'Artagnan, I am not saying our Athos was *wrong* to do what he did," Aramis says, and makes soothing gestures with his free hand while stroking d'Artagnan's cheek with the other. "I believe in my *soul* that he was *not*, and now that I know... now that you have told me this, very many things about Athos and his relationships with Porthos and myself over the years have become very clear, indeed. I am only saying... well..." 

"*What*?" 

Aramis winces again. "It is not so hard for me to understand how Athos could come to spend the past five years doubting himself in a situation like this one." 

"She was a *liar*. And — and he'd known his brother all his life!" 

"And what if it was not rape, mm?" 

"What — that's what I'm saying!" 

"Shh. What if it was that this boy, this young man — and he could've very well been close to your age, then — had found information on the wife, found that she had lied —" 

"Athos said that he found proof that he *had* —" 

"Ah, yes? Well, then. What if he confronted her with this information, and they argued, and he *struck* her, hm?" 

"I — I..." 

"A low woman, grasping for money..." Aramis shrugs, and it isn't light, at all. "Many of the most gentle noblemen... they are not so gentle with men *or* women like that. I know you have seen this." 

d'Artagnan can't... he can't. 

"So. So... perhaps he struck her. Perhaps he struck her *again*. Perhaps he knocked her to the floor, or the desk, or the *bed*. Or, perhaps, he didn't strike her, at all. Perhaps he was simply angry enough to advance upon her *precipitously* enough that she tripped — and then he didn't stop. Perhaps, in that moment, she grew frightened, and worried about what *else* he might do. Mm?" 

"No — oh." 

"*She* didn't know Thomas her whole life. She... well. She'd presumably known other sorts of men, entirely." 

"Aramis..." 

"I am only saying — none of us were in that room with the two of them. None of us know what was in *either* of their minds. And Athos... Athos is precisely the sort of man who would dream up a scenario like that one if there was the slightest, *barest* chance of it being a *reasonable* scenario —" 

"And — torture himself with it." 

"Yes," Aramis says, and brings the hand that isn't on d'Artagnan's cheek to his shoulder, rubbing and squeezing. "I would be greatly shocked if this sort of thing isn't *part* of what is wearing on him this morning, precisely *because* you were so quick — yes? — to absolve him of his guilt."

"He *isn't* —" 

"No, he is not. He did what he could to see that justice was done — in some way. Had he not acted unilaterally, had he brought in the government, his wife would probably have been put to the question, tortured absolutely brutally, and all of his family's secrets would have been laid out for the public to gnash their teeth on." 

d'Artagnan hears himself make a nauseated sound — 

"Yes, precisely. And — he is our brother. *Our* brother. You have not said this, but I believe he still harbors love in his heart for this woman, or for the image of herself she gave him. Does he not?" 

d'Artagnan swallows and winces. 

"Oh, little brother... once someone takes up residence in our hearts, they never truly leave. Athos's heart, for all that he would have us believe otherwise, has more than enough room for all of us — and especially you." 

"It — I *believe* you, Aramis." 

"Yes?" 

("There is no deviance in love.") 

d'Artagnan smiles ruefully and nods. "He was... he was. So good." 

Aramis parts his lips. "He... perhaps he *told* you how he felt?" 

d'Artagnan ducks his head. "He said he'd been... dreaming of me. My... mouth." 

"He is not the only one..." 

d'Artagnan grunts and shifts on his feet. "I —" 

"Shh, all is well, tell me of *Athos*." 

d'Artagnan looks up through his lashes and smiles wryly. "Suddenly you don't mind secrets so much?" 

"Ah, but some things should never *be* secrets," Aramis says, taking his hand from d'Artagnan's shoulder and gesturing expansively with it — 

"*No*?" 

"Some things must be shouted to the rooftops —" 

"Like your *collar*?" 

Aramis winks at him. "My Porthos, he let me be his pet —" 

"Let — pet —" 

"And made me very wet... with sweat..." 

d'Artagnan splutters and moves to shove Aramis again — 

And Aramis grabs one of his hands, but still doesn't take *his* other hand from d'Artagnan's face. "Little brother..." 

"Um. Yeah?" 

"Did he tell you how he *feels* about you?" 

d'Artagnan grins. "He told me... that I made him feel loved. He told me. We did something — *I* did something a little extreme, and I was talking about feeling like a deviant, and he told me —" 

"'There is no deviance in love,'" Aramis says, grinning. 

"*Yes*. And he told me that *you* had told him and Porthos about your religion, and all the ways it didn't look like the Church's religion, and I wanted — well, I wanted a lot of things, but one of the things I wanted was to talk to you about it." 

Aramis grins wider. "*Any*time, little brother. *Truly*." 

"That doesn't seem like too much?" 

"*Please* do not start questioning yourself about this —" 

"It's just that I can't stop thinking about everything you've all *done* —" 

"— to ensure that we could have you with us forever? To ensure that you would never wish to leave us? To make ourselves look so *attractive* —" 

"You're not that — you're not *like* that!" 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

"Oh — *Aramis*. Look at it from my *perspective*: If you all really were that *awful*, then why would you *ever* want me? I'm boring and I scold you all the time!" 

Aramis coughs laughter again — 

"Aramis —" 

"Little *brother*. You couldn't be boring if you were unconscious — your snores are adorable — and, for all your scolding, you always let us drag you into sin and iniquity. Now, don't you?" 

"I just —" 

"I did take your point, though," Aramis says, and hugs him again — 

"Oh — fuck, how do you keep knowing I *need* this?" 

"I ask myself what I *want*..." 

"*Aramis*, *come* on —" 

Aramis snickers. "You are too *easy* today, d'Artagnan. Lovemaking — extreme lovemaking? And what is this? — makes you *giddy*." 

d'Artagnan sighs, kisses both of Aramis's cheeks, breaks the hug, and sits down against the wall of the shed — 

Aramis crouches beside him — 

"I sucked his cock." 

"There is nothing extreme —" 

"While he was pissing," d'Artagnan says, and turns to *look* at Aramis. 

Whose mouth is open — 

Just a little — 

He licks his lips and looks *thoughtful* — 

d'Artagnan *really* shouldn't be thinking about — 

Or should he? 

"Athos... let you do this? Freely?" 

"He was too shocked to stop me, at first, I think," d'Artagnan says. "I mean, I'd sucked his cock, and he'd spent in my mouth, and then he'd pulled out because he *needed* to piss all of a sudden —" 

"Ah, yes, planning assignations can be very awkward after one has been drinking —" 

"Do you *plan* that sort of thing after you've been drinking?" 

"Not at all! It is, as I've said, very awkward," Aramis says, and grins at him — wickedly *again*. 

d'Artagnan snorts. "Are *you* giddy?" 

"*Incredibly* so, little brother. You do not understand the sort of care beautiful Porthos can *provide* when he is making love!" 

"He — he's *always* very caring. But I wouldn't have thought..." And d'Artagnan raises his eyebrows at Aramis. 

Aramis grins. "You wouldn't have thought that I would want such a thing?" 

"Well... you're... um." 

"Yes?" 

d'Artagnan snorts. "Look, I don't *want* to agree with *anything* those arseholes said, but you *are* kind of an alley-cat, Aramis." 

"And a whore?" 

"I — you *do* sell yourself —" 

Aramis inclines his head. "These things are true!" 

"I *know* they are —" 

"They are not true all the time." 

d'Artagnan opens his mouth — "Oh." 

Aramis grins more. "Yes. They are not true all the time, and Porthos knew — *knows* — that they are not true all the time, and..." Aramis laughs softly. "He knows what *is* true those other times." 

And — somehow — Aramis blushes. 

Just — *blushes*. 

"Aramis...?" 

Aramis licks his lips. "I will never judge you for 'extremity' in your sexuality, little brother. It's been a very long time since I have drunk piss for sexual purposes —" 

"Oh — I don't know *why* I'm surprised," d'Artagnan says, and laughs — 

"Neither do I!"

d'Artagnan gives Aramis a shove — 

Aramis snickers and rocks in his crouch — and catches d'Artagnan's hand and kisses it — 

"Oh —" 

"Shh. *My* piss-drinking was *accidental* —" 

"*How* do you —" 

"Well, I should say it was accidental, at first," Aramis says, and twines their fingers together. "Jean-Pierre, he must've had a very full bladder before I crept up to him in the library and dropped to my knees. In those days, he could never say no to such things. He spent, and then began to piss. I could see the horror in his eyes... but not until after I had begun to lap and suck and masturbate myself in desperate *need*." 

"Oh — oh, God, *that* —" 

"Yes?" 

"I wanted — I wanted to be *marked* —" 

"*Yes*. And I thought, in those moments, that Jean-Pierre was doing just that. Was *claiming* me, or — and these thoughts were murkier and wordless — putting me in my place." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Indeed. After, though... after he had finished pissing, and had fucked my mouth a *second* time —" 

"Oh — oh, *fuck*, Aramis!" 

"After I had spent on the stone between his feet and held him up so that he didn't fall down... he gave me a very queer and *dark* look. 

"We did not speak for more than the most shallow things for days after that — we, who had been the closest of friends! And after *that*... 

"Well, there were many things which made my schooling difficult for me, after that." 

"Oh..." d'Artagnan winces. "I'm sorry." 

Aramis spreads his hands. "Such is life. 

"It *shouldn't* be." 

"Agreed." 

"You were — you were making *love* with him!" 

"I was." 

"He... wasn't making love with you." 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "He was not. Or... I think, sometimes, that he *was* —" 

"Aramis —" 

"But that his *fear* and *disgust* at doing such a thing — at being a person who *could* do such a thing... do you see?" 

d'Artagnan scowls. "*Yes*, but I hate it." 

Aramis grins. "I have wondered, more than once, what your religious schooling was like." 

"Oh. You have?" 

"Yes. You have looked with much confusion *and* contempt on the Church fathers here in Paris —" 

"They *deserve* —" 

"They are worth just that, yes. But you often give the selfsame looks to the *lowest* of priests —" 

"They —" 

"Deserve it, too? How so? Who *was* your parish priest?" 

"Oh. Well. Father Caius." 

"Yes?" 

"No one really knew how old he was — *is*; he's still there as far as I know — just that he was the one who'd married all our grandparents — and some of our great-grandparents! — and baptised all our parents —"

"Oh, my! But — already your tale is becoming clear." 

"It is?" 

"Mm!" And Aramis nods and squeezes d'Artagnan's hand.

"What is it?" 

"Think of the *reformers*, little brother." 

"I — why? They don't get any traction in Gascony —" 

"*Precisely*." 

d'Artagnan frowns. "I'm not sure I know what you're getting at?" 

"Ah, well, it is this," Aramis says, and moves closer — even though they're already very close. His yellow-brown eyes are bright and sparkling, and he's as obviously animated as he ever is about *anything*. 

Even *Porthos*. 

It's — religion. 

d'Artagnan settles in to listen. 

"Your Father Caius, he was ordained in a world where most had not even considered the *possibility* that reform-minded men — and they were there, all over, but still! — could ever have *churches* of their own. Much less churches in *Paris*. Which weren't summarily burnt to the ground, with their priests treated much the same, and their parishioners pilloried!" 

d'Artagnan blinks and blinks and — "I — all right? I can imagine that —" 

"Sort of...?" 

d'Artagnan smiles ruefully. "Yeah. Sort of. My religious education wasn't... well, you know. I can *read*, but not nearly as well as you. We only had a *few* books, and they *were* religious, so..." 

"You were not so *interested* in reading them...?" And Aramis grins wryly at him. 

d'Artagnan smiles. "Pretty much. If it wasn't riding or shooting or practicing the sword with my Dad..." He shrugs. 

Aramis hums and looks down at d'Artagnan's lap. "I think, perhaps, my little brother had a *few* other interests..." 

"Oh —" 

"... but we will leave that for now." 

"Oh, will we? *Really*?" 

"For *now*," Aramis says, and winks. 

d'Artagnan snorts. 

"In *any* event, try this: Your Father Caius, he was ordained, made one with the Christ, in a time when Mother Church was all. *All*. When the newly-growing population all over France — all over Europe! — meant that men of the cloth were needed at *speed*, and, so, sometimes *rougher* men were chosen rather than men of exquisite learning who were interested in *propagating* that exquisite learning. 

"Sometimes, these men, they were... hm... matter-of-fact, shall we say? They were *soldiers* for the faith, for the Church, but, more to the point, they were *shepherds* for a flock that was wandering all over hill and dale with no one to guide them! 

"So, these men, these men like, I think, your Father Caius, they spent *much* time teaching the basics, the fundamental *truths* of the Church as they saw them, and they threw what they saw as the unnecessary fripperies to the wayside —" 

"Oh! *Yes*. That's it *exactly*!" 

"Yes?" 

"*Yes*," d'Artagnan says, and shifts a little. "I mean, if a man wanted his sons to read, and he couldn't teach them himself because he was busy with the farm or whatever, then Father Caius would help, or if someone *had* a religious question or something like that, he would *answer*, but —" 

"He did this brusquely, and *efficiently*, and with an utter *lack* of nonsense. Yes?" 

"*Right*! That! And — and I don't want you to think he was mean or anything like that. I mean, Father Caius was everyone's uncle. Or grand-uncle. Or great-grand— you know what I mean." 

Aramis smiles. "I do, yes. Try this. He was, perhaps, not so *rigid* about what was and wasn't a sin...?" 

"No, not that. But... when you went to confession, he didn't lord it over you. He treated you like a person, like someone who'd made mistakes — no, not *that*," d'Artagnan says, and thinks about it. 

Aramis waits, obviously patient —

Easy and open and — 

And *with* him, for this, completely with him, and that's just it. 

d'Artagnan nods. 

"Yes, little brother?" 

"You always got the sense that nothing you'd done would ever make him turn away from you, or treat you like dirt, or *punish* you like dirt, because — because he was a sinner, too. Just like God said." 

"Well, I have some information for you about this, but yes, you have the gist —" 

"I *know* I do, because Father Caius was *constantly* fucking the widows of the parish and he made at least as many terrible comments about the goats as the young Treville does." 

Aramis splutters — 

And d'Artagnan grins, always glad when *he* can shock, and have good timing, at least a little — 

"Oh — d'Artagnan." 

"Yeah?" 

"This, *this* is what *many* men of the Church were like, once upon a time. I know, because one of the few priests who did not lie to me and beat me habitually for *studying* the Bible —" 

"*What*?" 

"This is a story for another time —" 

"Wait, no —" 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"*Aramis*!" 

And Aramis squeezes his hand — hard. While looking away. 

d'Artagnan isn't an idiot. He knows that's a request — and maybe even a *plea* — for him to leave the subject alone, but... "Does... does Porthos know about this?" 

"Some," Aramis says, in a subdued voice. 

"Then — that's all right." 

"Is it?" And Aramis looks back at him. 

d'Artagnan smiles ruefully. "I already know that he'd throw the King through a brick wall if that would somehow lead to him being able to take care of *us* better —" 

Aramis coughs again — 

"— so if he knows about *this*, then he *will* take care of you. However you need. However you let him. And... I'm starting to understand, I think, why you would actually want that." 

"Mm. With all of myself. But — there are many ways to *be* taken care of, little brother. I imagine *you* felt very cared-for last night, on your knees, as Athos filled your *mouth*." 

"Oh... God. Yeah. Yeah, I did. And he... he was petting my *hair*..." 

Aramis growls. "That... I do not tire of this. Rough calluses catching on the strands of my hair, *pulling* —" 

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah..." And d'Artagnan licks his lips — 

"But we were talking of religion!" 

"What — *what*?" 

Aramis snickers *hard* — 

"Oh, you *arse* —" 

Aramis brings their twined hands to his mouth and kisses d'Artagnan's — 

"I — are you trying to seduce me?" 

"Yes, very much so." 

"With cuddling and talk about religion?" 

"We have *also* discussed my childhood miseries and the drinking of *piss*." 

Hirondelle stops dead some four yards away from them. 

And stares. 

And *stares* — 

*Fuck* — 

"Yes, brother?" And Aramis smiles *sunnily* at him. 

"I..." Hirondelle squeezes his bright green eyes shut, shakes himself like a dog, seems to count *silently* — and then he opens his eyes, licks his lips, and says, "Was wondering if the two of you blokes knew where the Captain was today? He was supposed to talk to Furet about making him a Lieutenant yesterday evening, and with him missing this long, Furet's gotten a bit worried that the Captain changed his mind, like." 

"*Brother*! You know the Captain would never give Furet news like that in such a way —" 

"*I* know, yeah, but it's all Furet wants," Hirondelle says, peering back over his shoulder for a moment before leaning in, morning sunlight burnishing the copper of his beard. "It'd mean the Captain thinks he's fit to teach, deaf ear and all." 

"Of course he is, and you know that, and I know that, and — and," Aramis says, and winces. "We are, perhaps, all raw recruits before the Captain." 

"*Exactly*," Hirondelle says. "So...?" 

"I'm afraid I cannot tell you where he is —" 

"You don't *know* where he is or you can't *tell* me where he is?" And Hirondelle gives them something of a look. 

d'Artagnan honestly wants to tell the whole garrison, get everyone on the *problem*... but he recognizes that that's the exact *least* practical way to do things, at least right now. 

Aramis, for his part, just spreads his hands and smiles ruefully. 

Hirondelle sighs. "*Right*. Poor Furet's going to be chewing on his hat at this rate. But maybe this is about where Porthos and Athos went with those strange blokes in the training leathers at the arse-crack of dawn this morning? They sure didn't *move* like recruits." 

Aramis's smile becomes a wince. "Hirondelle." 

"Right, right, we're all to shut our gobs and pretend we didn't *see* that. *Fine*," he says, and spits. "Don't know how you keep all these plots and schemes from driving you *spare*, Aramis." 

"Ah, well, that is an easy question to answer." 

Hirondelle blinks. "Is it?" 

"Strong drink, applied liberally, on a daily — and nightly — basis." 

Hirondelle brays laughter, salutes them both with cheerful obscenity, and goes on his way. 

And then Aramis turns back to *him*. "Now, then. Now that you have manfully resisted the urge to tell still more secrets —" 

d'Artagnan blushes — 

"I will *always* know what that *particular* look *means* now —" 

"Aramis — I don't — I don't feel *qualified* to take care of you," d'Artagnan blurts. "Sexually — I mean — I know it would be more than sex —" 

"Little brother. What on earth makes you think that I require all of my lovers to love me precisely the same way?" 

d'Artagnan blinks and inhales sharply — 

"Do you want Athos to love you the same way Constance would —" 

"Oh, God, just — maybe at the same *time*," d'Artagnan says, and laughs helplessly — 

And Aramis grins and laughs with him. "And both of them would touch you the same way?" 

"*No* —" 

"Then both of them would say the same words, in the same *ways* —" 

"No, no — fuck. I told Athos I was — getting a fixation on his *diction* —" 

"*Really*. Mm. Shall I speak more properly for you, lovely little brother?" 

"You — you *already* — but it's different from Athos." 

"And you like that, do you not?" 

"It's *wonderful*, and — hot," d'Artagnan says, and smiles ruefully. "You know it is. I bet Porthos made you talk the whole time." 

"I —" And then Aramis closes his mouth and looks thoughtful. 

"No?" 

"*Yes*, actually, but I am not certain whether I talked so much because I needed to, because *he* needed me to, or both." 

"But he *enjoyed* it." 

Aramis grins more and closes his eyes. "My words... they made him hot. *Hungry* for me." 

"What... what were you saying?" 

"My dreams of him — some of them, anyway. I have had years *to* dream of him, after all," Aramis says, and opens his eyes again — 

"*Will* you tell him —" 

"Everything. *Everything*. This is what he demands of me; this is what he shall have." 

"And. If I asked for the same things?"

Aramis gasps a little — 

"Are you *surprised*? You know I want — I want to know everything. I want to *have* everything —" 

"And you will give us all of yourself?" 

"I don't have —" 

"Shh. Yes or no." 

"*Yes* —" 

And Aramis brings their hands to his mouth again, opens d'Artagnan's hand, and kisses the palm. Not quickly. Not — 

He kisses it slowly, wetly — 

He makes *love* to all the *calluses* — 

Every — 

d'Artagnan's hard and his hand is *shaking* — "Aramis —" 

Aramis *sucks* d'Artagnan's hilt-callus — 

"*Fuck* — please stop —" 

And then Aramis *jerks* back, just like that, and wipes his mouth with the back of his own hand. "You have my apologies —" 

"No — no." 

"No?"

d'Artagnan pants and flexes his — *wet* — hand —-

And *shivers* — 

"I..." 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. "You must not pretend to a comfort you don't feel —" 

"I'm not — and I *won't*. I mean. Of course I want you. I want *all* of you —" 

Aramis *growls* — "Little brother..." 

"Who bloody *wouldn't*? You — you take me to *brothels*, and I can *hear* you in the next room — *with* Porthos — and the two of you are egging each other on, and the lady or ladies of custom are just going *mad* for you, and I can tell that it's *real* —" 

"d'Artagnan, why did you not come *join* us?" 

"I *wanted* to, but I..." d'Artagnan shakes his head. "If I had thought seriously about why I wasn't doing it, then I'd have had to think about all the things I felt like I *owed* you and Porthos —" 

"Oh, *no* —" 

"Yeah. And I wasn't ready. And — maybe I do understand about — some secrets." 

Aramis smiles ruefully and rolls down onto his knees, cupping d'Artagnan's face again. "All is well." 

"You keep *saying* that —" 

"It keeps being true —" 

"I —" 

"Listen. Listen," Aramis says, stroking d'Artagnan's cheek again, and moving to kneel beside where d'Artagnan is sitting against the shed. 

"I'm listening — and thinking about the picture we're making right now —" 

"Should I stop touching you?" 

"I. Don't want you to. Sometimes I complain —" 

"More than you actually care about the things you're complaining about. I know this thing. We all know it. What we don't know —"

"Is why?" 

Aramis nods once and cups d'Artagnan's shoulder with his other hand. "Tell me?" 

"It actually — it goes back to Father Caius." 

"Does it? Tell me." 

"I... think you can probably guess?" 

Aramis raises an eyebrow — 

Searches him for a long moment — and then nods. "I think I see, yes. A rough man. A man of clarity and *enforced* simplicity. A man who is *brusque*, even with the sacrament of *confession*. It all tends to build, in the laity, a need to have the *appearance* of piety — as a bare minimum — as well as a need to enjoy life to a certain *sinful* extent — however far feels *safe*, given the sternness of the confessor in question — as *well* as a need to berate and scold those who do not keep their sins under wraps until they can be — safely — confessed, and expiated. Anyone who deviates from this pattern threatens the status quo, and forces the laity to face the fact that they are not truly *trying* not to sin." 

"I... *damn*." 

"No...?" 

"*Yes*," d'Artagnan says. "That's exactly it. I'd just never... flattened it all out on a table like that, before. I don't want to be a *hypocrite*!" 

"Well, do you judge your brothers harshly for doing the things you both do and wish fervently that you *could* do? The things you *would* do if the opportunities fell into your lap?" 

d'Artagnan winces. "Sometimes. This... this is another reason why you left the Church, isn't it?" 

Aramis inclines his head. "The Church is full of men with far more learning — and far more *access* to learning — than your Father Caius ever had, and still they come out dripping with hypocrisies. With the *fire* to sin in each and every way which pleases *them* — and excuse themselves for it — while condemning every person who sins, or 'sins', in ways which *don't* please them. Or perhaps they are the same sins, after all! 

"Perhaps the only difference between the priest and the lay-person is that the priest is a *priest*, and backed by the power and authority of the Church as he performs whatever obscenities..." But Aramis trails off, staring at something behind his own eyes that's... terrible. 

"Aramis?" 

He doesn't answer for a long moment, just kneels and stares and *grips* d'Artagnan. 

d'Artagnan turns into him enough that he can hold him back. That they can cuddle here in this small shadow like children, just for a moment — 

And Aramis's sigh is choked. "You are a good boy, d'Artagnan." 

"I'm not —" 

"You are a wonderful little brother." 

"I'll — accept that." 

Aramis laughs quietly. "I thank you," he says, and kisses d'Artagnan's cheeks again, and pulls back enough that they're only sitting next to each other again. 

"You didn't have to do that —" 

"Thank you, but I think you will appreciate a *slight* amount of circumspection from time to time."

"I — all right, but —" 

"Only slight...?" Aramis hums and tilts his head back against the shed wall. "I believe I can work with this," he says, and grins as he rolls his head back and forth. The collar looks tight around his throat, and they're still close enough that d'Artagnan can smell Porthos on it. 

d'Artagnan swallows — 

"Mm? What is it?" And Aramis raises an eyebrow at him. 

"I can — smell Porthos on your collar. His collar? How... does that work?" 

Aramis gives him the wicked smile again. "He is my Master. He saw that his pet was in great distress, and had great need for... comfort. Care. *Security*. He gave his pet a collar that *seems* as insubstantial as cloth, but, in truth, holds all the world within it." 

"Part of me wants to touch it to see if it feels *magical* now," d'Artagnan says, laughing softly. 

"It feels *very* magical to *me* —" 

d'Artagnan laughs harder — 

And Aramis winks at him again. "I believe our Porthos wants to replace it — somehow — with something stronger, something more permanent, but I believe the most practical way to do *this*... would be to redesign my leathers." 

"Oh... and put something on the coat — or tunic, maybe?" 

"Precisely. Already, the men give me queerer than usual looks for my collar, and I do not think the Captain — our true Captain — would be able to let me get away with wearing it for a trip to the palace, even though we now know that the man he is *inside* would want to." 

d'Artagnan blinks — 

"You had not thought of this...?" Aramis grins *evilly* this time. "You did not see him with his brothers last night." 

"Well, it was pretty clear that the *biggest* arsehole — that Reynard — wanted him —" 

"It was also clear, with time, that Reynard had kept this from our Treville for at least *some* substantial length of time." 

"*Really*? *How*?" 

"This I cannot say, for certain, though I suspect women played at least as much of a role as they did in keeping me from being honest with Porthos. Reynard, he was raised in the Church, to a certain extent. He was not unfamiliar to me." 

"Oh. I — oh. Do you... like him now?" And d'Artagnan *tries* to sound neutral — 

And Aramis laughs at him. "I am reserving judgment... though he gave a very powerful and sincere apology —" 

"He apologized *yesterday* —" 

"A *sincere* apology, I said, little brother," Aramis says, and makes soothing gestures. "Our Porthos, *he* is ready to trust them with his life." 

"*Aw* —" 

"*But*, one of the things he told me this morning was that he would not be able to *be* the trusting person he wanted to be if he did not have *me* to be the *calculating* person he wants me to *always* be." 

"*Oh* — and *I'll* always — I mean. I don't want to — I wouldn't *try* to take your place —" 

"I know this," Aramis says, and grins. "Just as we *both* know that you would not have put your pistol up yesterday were we not *strongly* persuasive." 

"No! I wouldn't've!" 

"We talked about this," Aramis says. "About you, this morning." 

"Oh — you had *time*?" 

Aramis laughs. "We did not make love again this morning. We woke early — in the *stables* — and washed, and dressed, and returned to the East barracks to find them a den of iniquity like — well, like many I have seen before, truly, but this one had a naked Treville engaging in what was clearly *more* buggery. That was new," Aramis says, expression quirking. 

d'Artagnan snorts. "I can't believe he accused me of fucking *goats*." 

"And horses. And, to be fair —" 

"I don't want to be fair!" 

"— he *might* have been accusing you of letting yourself be fucked *by* horses and goats." 

d'Artagnan splutters — "How is that — I don't —" d'Artagnan smacks the back of Aramis's head. 

With his *damp* hand — 

*Hard* — 

Aramis sucks his teeth. "Such a violent young man —" 

"I'm not that young!" 

"So precipitous and unkind —" 

"*Hey* —" 

"To his *only* brothers —" 

"I'm *very* kind to Athos," d'Artagnan says, and pulls on what he hopes is a lofty expression, as opposed to just a constipated one. 

Aramis snickers — 

Like a *boy* — 

d'Artagnan turns to stare at him — 

Just to see — 

"Oh — little *brother*," he says, and his eyes are sparkling. "We love you very *much*!" 

d'Artagnan shivers and — needs. "Did you... talk about that?" 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "Porthos was telling me to have faith, to *believe* in Athos's ability to take care of you... well." 

"Oh — oh. You didn't think he could? Or — you thought that I *needed* —" 

"We all need such things, from time to time. Don't we." It's not a question. 

It's not a *question* — "Yeah. We do." 

"Especially when we demand strong drink when we normally eschew just that...?" 

d'Artagnan looks down — no. He looks up into Aramis's eyes again. "It *didn't* go well, at first." 

Aramis nods, silent and obviously listening. 

"Neither of us could — start the conversation." 

"No, I imagine not." 

"And then... well, it was pretty clear that Athos didn't know *how* to... I mean, he had a lot of fucked ideas about how friendship *worked*. Stuff about being a burden and all that." 

"Which of you did he think was burdensome — no, I can answer that question," Aramis says, sighing and hanging his head. "We *have* been, perhaps, too gentle with his pain." 

"You *definitely* have. I mean, I think, with him, gentle just means you don't *really* want to... touch him." 

Aramis winces — and nods. "I... am familiar with how thoughts like that run." 

d'Artagnan frowns. "But..." 

"Sometimes the most delicate, thoughtful care comes from the hardest and most bruising touches, little brother," Aramis says, and smiles wryly — 

And d'Artagnan can't stop himself from *looking* — 

From searching every inch of Aramis's skin he can *see* — 

Just — 

"You will not find the bruises *this* way, little brother." 

"Oh — oh. That was obvious, wasn't it." 

Aramis smiles at him. "My hips." 

"That —" d'Artagnan swallows. "That makes —" 

"And my hole." 

"— sense. *Fuck* — you. He — did he." 

"That shocks you? That I liked our Porthos hurting me there?" 

"It wouldn't have *before* this conversation, but — but gentle isn't always better. In terms of... taking care of you." 

"Just so." 

"And sometimes hard — very hard — is *best*?" 

"Oh, yes," Aramis says, and *grins* — and makes a point of *grinding* his own arse down against the packed earth. 

"Oh — *Aramis* —" 

He *groans* — 

"I'm back to wondering why you wasted time talking about *me* this morning!" 

And, just like that, Aramis is growling and glaring at him — 

Aramis is straddling d'Artagnan's *thighs* — 

"What — nnk —" 

Aramis is *choking* him — "You will *never* speak of time spent with you — or spent talking *about* you — as *waste*." 

d'Artagnan *stares* at Aramis — 

"Do you understand?"

"I'm." 

"Do you understand." 

"A part of me is just looking for your dagger. *Brother*." 

Aramis inhales sharply — and turns away. 

Which is both a point scored and absolutely nothing d'Artagnan wants. Nothing — 

d'Artagnan leans in and presses his lips to Aramis's hot, blushing cheek. 

Another sharp inhale — 

d'Artagnan kisses him again, closer to the corner of his mouth. 

"d'Artagnan..." 

"Are you stopping me?" 

"I... should." 

"Do you want to?" 

"I —" 

"Do you *want* to, Aramis. Not do you think you *should*." 

Aramis breathes —

And breathes — and turns to kiss d'Artagnan's mouth. It's not a hard kiss, but. 

It's hot. 

It's — 

It's *hot*, and wet, and slow, and Aramis is making love to him right here, against an ammunition shed at the *garrison*, and anyone can *walk by* — 

But. 

Hirondelle already had.

*While* they were talking about drinking piss. 

*And* Aramis had put him off with talk of schemes and intrigue and that means no one *else* will come and d'Artagnan is already cupping Aramis through his trousers, feeling the heat of him there, the *heft* of his balls right *there* — 

Aramis pants into his mouth —

Aramis pants into his *mouth* — 

d'Artagnan whines — 

And Aramis cups d'Artagnan's face with both hands and kisses him more, deeper, wetter — 

Gets him messy — 

His beard is *soft*, except where it's short enough to bristle, short — 

Shorter than Athos's, and the boys he'd kissed back home were all boys, and the few men he's kissed *here* — in *those* brothels, because Aramis and Porthos really had taken him *everywhere* — had been shaved down *like* boys. 

Even the big one with the moan d'Artagnan could feel in his chest — 

But Aramis's beard is right there, and impossible to ignore, and leaving him sensitized — 

Not all over. 

Not even all over his *face*. "Please," he says, before — "please, I want more." Before he can think. 

Aramis bites d'Artagnan's lower lip, and *licks* his cheek, and *fucks* his *ear* — 

"*Please* —" 

"And if Athos wants you to be more... continent?" 

And that's kind of an *amazing* thing to say to someone after kissing them like *that* and letting them *fondle your balls*, but — 

Aramis. 

Aramis — and also *him*, because he's right here doing this, and nowhere else, and he doesn't *want* to be anywhere else. Not when *squeezing* Aramis's balls like this — 

"Unh — d'Artagnan — *d'Artagnan* —" 

— leads to that. 

Leads to d'Artagnan flushing and lifting his own hips and *wanting* — 

He squeezes *again* — 

And Aramis *grunts* again, grips d'Artagnan's head, fucks his ear repeatedly with his tongue — 

"So — so *wet* —" 

"Mm? You like? You will let me fuck your arse this way?" 

d'Artagnan *bucks* — "Let me — let me —" 

"What do you want? What can I *give* you, little brother?" 

And suddenly — "I'm. Thinking of your hole." 

Aramis *pants* against d'Artagnan's ear — 

Licks him there — 

Pulls back and tosses his head and stares down into d'Artagnan's eyes. "You want to fuck me, little brother?"

And d'Artagnan doesn't even know how his other hand had made it *around* to Aramis's arse, but he's squeezing him there, cupping and *squeezing* — 

Aramis makes a *hurt* noise that doesn't sound like stop, but — 

d'Artagnan has to check. "Aramis?" 

Aramis swivels his hips and *bucks* — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"*Where* do you want to fuck, little brother? We will tell Athos that I forced you, that I manipulated you with my wiles —" 

d'Artagnan snorts. "He'd never *believe* that, and — oh, God, I *hope* he'd never — would *you* believe that?" 

Aramis waves a hand. "My wiles are very good, as these things go." 

d'Artagnan snickers. "*He* wants both of you —" 

"Oh — I didn't see those secrets coming," Aramis says, laughing ruefully and covering his face with both hands. 

"It's not a secret worth *keeping*!" 

Aramis groans into his hands. 

"It *isn't* —" 

"Little brother." 

"Aramis —" 

"Is that your decision to make...?" 

d'Artagnan's jaw *snaps* shut, just like that — 

And Aramis laughs at him — gently. "We — all — have certain things in common with each other, little brother. It would do us well to remember that at *all* times." 

d'Artagnan swallows, mortified and just — 

He can't even make himself *stop* Aramis when he stands — 

Even though the ground is hard and unforgiving and, somehow, *cold* without him there — 

He can't — 

"Come, little brother," Aramis says, and reaches down for d'Artagnan's hand. "We will go to the East barracks and fuck at *least* until you remember that all is well — "

"You just keep *saying* that —" 

"And it *continues* to be true, because? When Athos and Porthos return and smell your musk on me? Then they will batten upon me like *wolves* while you watch hungrily and wait your *turn*." 

d'Artagnan takes Aramis's hand and lets himself be hauled to his feet. "I don't get to join in?" 

"Oh, no, not yet. Not until you work off your punishment," Aramis says, throwing his arm over d'Artagnan's shoulders and walking them toward the barracks. 

"That... I feel like I should be protesting?" 

"No." 

"But —" 

"No, no protests," Aramis says, frowning like an old worthy at a teahouse — 

"*Aramis* —" 

"Will I kiss your flexing little hole first? Mm?" 

d'Artagnan grunts and *trips* — 

Aramis catches and holds him, guides him — 

"Fuck — sorry —" 

"All is well," he says, *again* — 

"*Aramis* —" 

"But." 

"But what?" 

"Perhaps you will kiss *my* flexing little hole first," he says, in a completely normal tone of *voice* — 

Anyone could *hear* — 

"Fucking —" 

"It is very puffy, very swollen —" 

"Oh my God —" 

"Porthos was most rough with me. I made him *very* aroused..." 

"When. When you were his pet?" 

Aramis smiles sharply at him. "Perhaps I should not tell you this thing. This *other* thing." 

"What — what other thing?" 

"This... different thing," Aramis says, and they're getting closer to the barracks — 

To the place where, if d'Artagnan walks in, he'll do a lot more than kissing and a little fondling — 

He'll really — 

With *Aramis* — 

And even his *fantasies* of Aramis were always either really basic and *shy* or really extreme and *crazy* because — 

Because who ever thinks they'll get that *chance*? 

*Who*? 

But. 

He does have that chance. He *does*, right now, and he just has to — 

Take it. d'Artagnan licks his lips. "I. I thought you'd give me everything." 

Aramis parts his lips. "It is what you want?" 

"I won't hold anything back from you, Aramis. Even if I'm — really scared. Really — wound up. I won't — no *secrets*," d'Artagnan says, and it's a growl, it's a promise — 

They're so close — 

He wants — "I want another *kiss*." 

"We are being watched by two men near the South barracks," Aramis says, barely moving his lips or teeth from his teasing smile. "That is the only reason why I am not telling you everything right now." 

"Oh — oh. Tell me inside?" 

"Oh, yes. Everything. Here, let's —" And Aramis leads them down the path that makes it look like they're headed the long way to the stables instead of the East barracks — 

That they're going anywhere but to the *plague* barracks — 

And then they're there, and hurrying in, and it smells like *sex*, like sex with *men*, and d'Artagnan doesn't know what he's expecting, but it's not a neat, dusty-looking barracks with the morning sun shining in — 

And Aramis is kissing him right next to one of the windows — 

Aramis is unlacing d'Artagnan's trousers — 

Aramis is kissing him so deeply, so sweetly, so *hungrily*, so — 

d'Artagnan breaks the kiss — "Is this how Porthos kisses you? So — so sweetly?" 

"Not usually, but sometimes," Aramis says, and licks his lips. "Do you want his kisses, little brother? Do you want him to hold you close and take you *over* with his pink, plush mouth?" 

d'Artagnan moans and just — just — 

His first instinct is to hide in a kiss, or to ask another question, or, worse, to *scold* — 

No, none of that, none — 

"I want — all of that. I want him to — but he has such big *hands*," d'Artagnan says, and he thinks he sounds like a *child*, but — 

But Aramis *beams* — "Yes, he *does*. You want him to *touch* you before he kisses you." 

"I — yeah, yeah — like you — I've thought of him just — throwing me *around*," he says, and laughs a little nervously — 

"This is an *excellent* thing to desire," Aramis says, and those hands are on his breeches — 

d'Artagnan blushes — 

"Are you well?" 

"I thought *all* was well —" 

"Shh. Are you *well*," Aramis says, and his voice is low and serious, open, demanding in every — every *caring* way — 

"Fuck — I'm. You know I'm nervous." 

"Tell me about this," Aramis says, and doesn't work on opening d'Artagnan's breeches, doesn't — 

"Please —" 

"Shh. I won't hurt you. Don't *let* me hurt you." 

"Athos and I — I threw myself at him — we were. We didn't think. There was no *time* to think." 

"We have time," Aramis says, slow and pointed. "We will use it." 

Right, and that's completely — Aramis isn't going to have this any other way, and Aramis only *acts* like he blows with the wind. And then only *sometimes*. "I just want. I don't want to screw up. This. *Us*."

Aramis raises his eyebrows — 

Oh — "*Aramis* —" 

"Shh, no, I — you believe there's some danger that the two of us making love will make me care less for you." 

"I — all right, when you say it that way, it makes it sound like — I know you're not an *arsehole* —" 

"No, no, you're worried that you will make... some kind of mistake?" 

"*Yes* —" 

"And, perhaps, hurt me?" 

d'Artagnan blinks. "Well — I know you're not *fragile*, too —" 

"Yes?" 

"*Yes*." 

"You know I am faithful — in my ways," Aramis says, and grins — 

d'Artagnan snorts — "Arse —" 

"And *not* fragile —" 

"And — and I'm being an idiot —" 

"You're being young," Aramis says, and squeezes his hips. "There are very large differences, especially when it comes to making love to the people we care very deeply about." 

d'Artagnan flushes *hard* — but. "That's — I love Athos. I love all of you. I want you. I need you. You're my *family* —" 

*Aramis* flushes — 

"You're *everything* to me — you and Constance — and I want —"

"You can have it. Whatever it is," Aramis says. "You..." Aramis growls, and leans in, and licks d'Artagnan's *throat* — 

d'Artagnan grunts — 

*Bucks* — 

Aramis doesn't *stop* him from doing it — 

Aramis just — just *rides* the motion with his *hands* — 

*Kisses* d'Artagnan's throat, sucks and nibbles — 

"Fuck — fuck, *please*, Aramis, bite harder, bite —" 

Aramis *gives* that to him — 

d'Artagnan cries *out* — 

Aramis *pulls* him away from the window, walking backwards easily, so easily, and all but *making* d'Artagnan trip him onto one of the beds farthest from the windows — 

There's barely any dust — 

Suspiciously — 

But there's no time to *think* about that, because Aramis is biting him again — 

d'Artagnan *thrusts* down against him — 

Aramis bucks *up* — 

That feels *incredible* — but when d'Artagnan tries to *say* that, all that comes out is a groan, a — 

He has to do better than that. He *can* do better than that. He pulls back, kneeling up and working on *Aramis's* clothes — 

Aramis *grins* at him, bright and wide and so — 

"You're — the first time I saw you. Well, the second time, after the whole vengeance thing, I was really. Fuck, you already *know* how gorgeous you are, and it doesn't change anything for *me* to say it —" 

"It does," Aramis says, eyes softening as he reaches up to stroke d'Artagnan's mouth. "These things always mean more from the people we love most, do they not?" 

d'Artagnan winces with lust, need — "Aramis — Aramis, you're not helping my *hands* remember how to *work*." 

"Simply pretend you are loading a gun —" 

"I don't think we're up to the *stuffing* part of the —" 

Aramis splutters — 

d'Artagnan grins helplessly — "I love making you *laugh*. *All* of you, but..." 

"Especially me...? Why is this?" 

"You're so *clever*. You — I've watched you make a woman who had decided to *hate* you turn around and go off to make *love* with you — *not* fuck you — in twenty *minutes*, just by you *talking* to her —" 

"Ah, this is —" 

"Don't say it's *nothing* —" 

"But it is. It *is*. Anyone can learn to be a pretty *liar*, little brother —" 

"But you weren't —" 

"I was. Did you ever see me with her after the few weeks I spent satisfying my curiosity?" 

d'Artagnan blinks... and frowns. 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "I am an alley-cat, and I am a whore — sometimes. But I have made *many* people believe that I wasn't *ever* either one." 

d'Artagnan swallows. 

"This..." Aramis smiles ruefully and strokes d'Artagnan's thighs. "This is one of the *many* reasons why I could *not* have had Porthos when he first made his offers. His many, many honest and open and *beautiful* offers." 

"Because... you would've just used him?" 

"I would've tried to, and I would've treated him as something to *be* used. A part of me would've known, perfectly well, that Porthos was everything beautiful, everything *worthy*, that I must *keep* him, but I wouldn't have known how to *listen* to that part, and so I would have..." And Aramis curls his lip. "Dallied." 

"Oh... fuck. And Porthos would've... I mean, even when he goes *whoring* he's practically best friends with the women and men he goes with." 

"This is so." 

"He would've felt *awful*." 

"This is so." 

"He... he really would've *disliked* you." 

"Perhaps hated me," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. 

"Oh — fuck. That's *horrifying* —" 

"Yes —" 

"I can't —" d'Artagnan draws back. "Did you know? Did you realize?" 

"That I would lose my chance with him forever if I surrendered to temptation?" He wags his head. "I do not want to give my younger self that much credit for wisdom. But... I did know that he was someone I wasn't worth." 

"Oh — *Aramis* —" 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"I just — I can't *stand* the idea of you two not *having* each other —" 

"We *do*," Aramis says, keeping his voice low and soothing, and — reaching up to stroke his collar. "My Master, he tells me that we will have each other always, and *he* never lies." 

d'Artagnan grunts. 

Aramis wags his eyebrows. 

"Don't — don't joke —" 

"I never would, not for this. I tease, only. You see a fissure in your family, yes?" 

"*Yes* —" 

"There is none. There *could* have been one, but, somehow, I *was* wise enough to keep it from occurring, years ago. *Instead*," Aramis says firmly, "I accepted his overtures of *friendship*, and, eventually, it taught me... so much better." He smiles ruefully. "Do you see?" 

d'Artagnan takes a breath. He — 

His family isn't in danger.

His family — "I — I'm —" 

"Do not apologize. You were frightened for your loves." 

"Yes — oh, *yes* —" 

"We both know how *I* behave when this is so," Aramis says, and smiles *slyly*. 

d'Artagnan *snorts*. "Aramis." 

Aramis hums. "I could lie here with you and talk for hours." 

Oh — "But?" 

"There are no buts," he says, and shakes his head. "I love you very much, little brother. Thank you for giving me this chance to show it. I am not always so good at showing these things *without* chances." 

And that — "Porthos always gives you chances." 

Aramis nods. 

"Porthos... Porthos *taught* you how to respond —" 

"I think," Aramis says, and looks at something behind his own eyes for a long moment. 

"Yeah?" 

"I *think* it would not be too much to say that Porthos — and his friendship — taught me very much about how to be... a person." 

"Oh." 

Aramis smiles wryly. "Certainly it would not be too much to say —" 

"You already said — he made you a better person." 

Aramis inclines his head. "And friend Porthos, beautiful Porthos, my beloved Master... he is not above saying that some people are *not* people. You have heard this, yes?" 

"I — yeah. But he's talking about real *arseholes*. Real — people who deserve *killing*." 

"This is so. But I wonder, sometimes, if he would think the person I was, back then, was a person. Was *worth* that designation."

"He was your *friend* still, though —" 

"He was the friend of the man I *showed* him. And I worked *very* hard to show him my best. To dredge *up* my best from... nothing, sometimes." 

"It obviously *wasn't* nothing —" 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"It wasn't *nothing*," d'Artagnan says *firmly*. "Or you wouldn't have been able to *do* it." 

Aramis raises his eyebrows again. "You truly believe this?" 

"Yes." 

"Even after all you have seen of me?" 

And that — "*Especially* after all I've seen of you, Aramis. Because — because there's so *much*." 

Aramis just looks at him for long moments, dark-eyed and hard to read —

"Aramis? Did I say something —" 

"I am a boy for my Porthos sometimes, d'Artagnan." 

"I — what —" 

"*That* is what I did not say to you outside, and what I worked very diligently to distract you from in here." 

d'Artagnan blinks — 

He hadn't realized — 

"You... you said you'd give me —" 

"Everything, and this was *not* a lie. But... I was not ready to give you *that* thing —" 

"We don't have to talk about anything you're not ready —" 

"I'm ready now," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully. "Though I will understand *very* well if *you* do not wish —" 

"I. What. What did you mean? That you were a boy?" 

Aramis swallows. d'Artagnan can see the collar making it difficult — or. Maybe it's not the collar. 

"Or —" 

"I had... we talked of my schooling." 

"Yeah, and I *hate* that you had to go through — I wish you'd *never* gone to *any* school —" 

Aramis laughs softly. "I have had this wish, for all that my education has, you must admit, done much for us...?" And Aramis raises his eyebrows again. 

"Oh — yeah, but —" 

"*But*, I have had a persistent fantasy for *many* years that someone — someone tall and strong and brave and kind and honourable — had *rescued* me from school, before it got *too* terrible, and rode and rode with me... somewhere." 

"Somewhere?" 

"Eventually, that somewhere became Paris, and then the garrison, where I would be one of the many boys. One of the *young* recruits." 

"Oh. *Oh*." 

"Eventually... the someone in those fantasies became Porthos." 

d'Artagnan takes a breath. "And... stayed Porthos." 

"Once we were friends, and together all the time..." Aramis smiles ruefully. "I tried to change the fantasy, to make it some faceless man again, to make it *any* other man... it didn't work. Except when I tried to make it *Treville* —" 

d'Artagnan *coughs* — 

"And I believe you can see where that could cause other problems...?" 

d'Artagnan can't *stop* coughing for a moment — 

And Aramis laughs softly. "I have no guilt, no trouble with myself for desiring our — true — Captain — 

"*Um* —" 

"But to desire to be his *boy*? When every day I had to be the best *man* I could be in front of him? That would not work." 

"N-no, I guess not," d'Artagnan says, and *tries* to sound like an adult, like he's not — 

"Little brother. Do you need me to stop...?" 

"*No*!" 

Aramis raises *one* eyebrow *high* — 

"I *don't* — please don't stop. I — please. It's just... I've spent so much time scolding all of you that I don't have *calluses* over — over the parts of me that can talk about dirty stuff. If that makes sense." 

"It does, but —" 

"This is more than — than any — this is more. This is *important*," d'Artagnan says, leaning over and cupping Aramis's shoulders. "Please. Please let me be — your friend. And your brother. And everything else." 

Aramis growls. "You will always be these things —" 

"Please —" 

"And you will *not* beg for them. You —" Aramis growls again and reaches up to cup d'Artagnan's face. 

"Oh —" 

"I *love* you —" 

"I love you!" 

"Tell me — tell the *unsure* *boy* in me, one more time, that you wish to know about him —" 

"I want to know *everything* about you! I want to — to *have* — oh, fuck, Aramis, even if I'm not qualified to be the one who *helps* you in these ways, who takes *care* of you, I still want to *know* you —" 

"*Always*," Aramis says. "So. I am fantasizing about Porthos, yes?" 

"Yeah — yeah. Every night?" 

"*Oh*, yes, at least a little. Though not that *way* every night. Even at my worst, I do not always need to be the boy." 

"No? Or... the pet?" 

"Ah, well, I think a part of me *will* always need to feel my Master's collar, but... that is a different thing." 

"All right?" 

"It is, well, a more *animal* thing, comfortable for my body as much as for my spirit... I will tell you more of this another time."

d'Artagnan nods. 

"My boy... the boy *inside* me... he fell in love with Porthos *first*." 

"*Oh*. That — that part of you?" 

"Oh, yes. That... the boy inside me... he is more straightforward, more honest. He plays fewer games with words, with emotions... and Porthos was and is a beacon of purest light to him. Of purest *family*." 

"God — that. That *exactly*!" 

Aramis grins. "Yes? You responded to this in him?" 

"You and Athos were so... slick and drunk and sleazy and *mean* — uh. No offense." 

Aramis laughs *hard*. "None *taken*. All of this is true!" 

"And — and of course Porthos cheats at cards and dice all the time, but he's so weirdly *honest* about even *that*." 

"This is so!" 

"He was... a relief," d'Artagnan says. 

Aramis smiles. "He was *balm* to my *soul*. And I *could* not let go of him. Eventually, I started to *try* to fantasize about Treville —" 

"Oh, God — no, no, keep going." 

Aramis laughs. "Oh, little brother. You are going to make it too much *fun* to scandalize you." 

"I thought I already did!" 

"Even *more*." 

d'Artagnan snorts. "*Fine*. Go *ahead*. I need to get in *shape*." 

"Ah, that you do. But, yes. Eventually — not *very* eventually — the boy in me could *only* dream of Porthos. Porthos's big hands, and big heart. Porthos *rescuing* me from that school, and taking me away, taking me *here*. Porthos... making me *his* boy." 

d'Artagnan blushes despite his best efforts to the contrary. "Do you. Does Porthos... like... that? Boys?" 

"You have not seen... ah, but it *has* been quite some time. He does not *often* go with boys, but when there is one who very clearly *desires* him, and who makes this *known*? Porthos will choose him happily." 

d'Artagnan blushes *harder*. "The boy... has to pick Porthos first?" 

"Always, yes. He told me, once, that he feels too much like a predator otherwise." 

"Did that... hurt your fantasies?" 

"Yes and no. It *changed* them. It... made them brighter," Aramis says, and smiles ruefully again. 

d'Artagnan blinks. "They weren't bright before?" 

"I had *thought* they were — I truly did! — but..." Aramis laughs softly and strokes d'Artagnan's chest. 

d'Artagnan shivers — and strips off his shirt *immediately*. 

Aramis purrs and looks him over hungrily, splays his hands *greedily* — 

"I — have you ever looked at me like that *before*?" 

"Yes." 

"But —" 

"Porthos and Athos were distracting you," Aramis says, and winks, and pets him — 

"Oh — fuck —" 

"Mm? Tell me." 

"Your calluses are *amazing* on my nipples —" 

"Then," Aramis says, and deliberately uses his trigger calluses on them again and again and — 

"Fuck — oh, fuck — " 

"Yes?" 

"Please —" 

"Should I stop talking and take care of my little brother?" 

"N-not yet —" 

"No? Are you certain...?" And that wicked smile is back — 

But. 

But now d'Artagnan knows that there are better smiles. More true smiles. 

He catches Aramis's wrists. "I'm certain." 

"Oh... little brother." 

"You — I forgive you for distracting me — wanting to distract me —" 

"Fuck — it's a *reflex* —" 

"I can see how it *would* be — and if you don't want to talk about —" 

"No. No. My brother must know me," Aramis says, sitting up and kissing him *hard* — 

"*Mm* —" 

But then the kiss settles into something sweeter again, something — 

Aramis is cupping his face, holding him *in* — 

It feels like he's telling d'Artagnan hugely important *things* with the kiss, like there are histories in the sweep of his tongue, and scars in the *press* of his lips and teeth. d'Artagnan wants all of them, everything, and he wants to get them in every possible *way* — 

He wants — 

He can *feel* that Aramis isn't trying to distract him with this kiss, and so it's *hideously* annoying that it's making him painfully hard — harder. It's — 

He pulls back — 

"Mm — no?" 

"I — it was just — too good." 

Aramis parts his lips while his eyes *darken* so *hungrily*. "d'Artagnan..." 

"I —" 

"You like my honesty..." 

"I *love* your honesty —" 

"It drives you a little mad?" 

"Oh — fuck — you can *see* that!" 

Aramis nods, obviously taking that in in some way he just wasn't before — 

He *kisses* d'Artagnan again — 

d'Artagnan is *seconds* away from falling into it and just going with the idea that they can talk later, do *everything* later — 

Aramis is kissing him like he wants d'Artagnan to *know* him, know everything *about* what makes him *feel* good — 

d'Artagnan shoves his hands in Aramis's hair — 

"Oh, yes, yes, but wait," Aramis says, slurring into his mouth — 

"Are you *sure*?" 

Aramis laughs, breathless and hungry. "I love you, little brother, and here is a very, very important truth about me —" 

"Oh, tell me —" 

"If you show me that you need me — *me*, the person behind every *mask* — I will always be helpless before you." 

d'Artagnan growls and *kisses* him, promises him, tries to *show* him — 

Aramis nods into it and takes it, takes *him*, takes — 

His hands are between them again, working on the laces of d'Artagnan's breeches — 

Oh — oh, fuck — 

"Aramis — *Aramis* —" 

"Let me make you spend, beautiful brother —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Let me take away your *desperation* —" 

"Leaving *yours*?" 

"I am *most* honest when I am twisting on a *rack* of my own need —" 

"Oh — *Aramis* —" 

"Let me suck you, mm? Your cock is magnificent, huge —" 

"Nnh —" 

"Fill my *mouth*, lovely brother —" 

"And — and then we'll talk more?" 

Aramis *pants* — and then grins like he's younger than d'Artagnan, grins the way he does for *Porthos*. "We will talk all day and *night* if you wish. We will talk down the *moon* —" 

d'Artagnan kisses him again, *again* — 

Shoves him down to the bed and kisses him *again*, and his cock's out, and aching in the cooler air, and slick, and — 

And oh, Aramis's hands are so loving on him, so — 

So hard and *good* — 

d'Artagnan *groans* into Aramis's mouth — 

d'Artagnan fucks Aramis's *fist* — 

*Both* fists, because Aramis is working him with both hands, using both hands to drive him *mad* — 

Aramis is seeking out all his — his most sensitive — 

Aramis is *playing* his cock like an *instrument*, wielding it like just another *weapon*, perfect and easy in his hands, and d'Artagnan feels perfect and easy in his *hands*, and he's groaning more, shaking — 

He can't kiss properly — 

He can't — 

"Just this, little brother? Just this simple thing?" 

"Your — your *hands* —" 

"Let me use my —" 

"Do anything, do *anything* —" 

Aramis *grunts*. "Shh, roll to your side, just — I promise I will not stop —" 

And d'Artagnan feels drugged, hot, needy, so *needy* — 

Aramis kisses him twice more — 

*Bites* — 

d'Artagnan whimpers and *bucks* — 

He *knows* he's leaking all over Aramis's fists — 

Aramis *squeezes* — 

d'Artagnan groans and pants, *pants*, *stares* — 

At *nothing* — 

Aramis is moving down the bed — 

Still *stroking* — 

So good — 

So *good* — 

d'Artagnan gropes for his face, his hair — 

And he *just* manages to get a grip on that hair, so soft and thick and wavy — 

He just — 

He wants to *pet* it, but he feels *unqualified* —

And then Aramis takes the head of d'Artagnan's cock in his mouth — 

Sucks it *hard* — 

d'Artagnan *shouts* —

*Pulls* Aramis's hair — oh, no — 

But Aramis makes a *pleased* sound and pulls *against* d'Artagnan's grip, and — 

And d'Artagnan *can't* not know that he's being urged to pull harder, more brutally — 

Oh. 

Oh — 

But Aramis had *said* that he'd liked having his hair pulled, feeling calluses on his scalp — 

d'Artagnan groans and pulls *hard* — 

Aramis *groans* around him — 

Looks up into his eyes — 

*Smiles* into his eyes — 

d'Artagnan *bucks* — and *that's* when he realizes that Aramis had let go, because his cock goes — 

Goes all the way — 

Aramis swallows and swallows and d'Artagnan is *yelling*, biting his *own* fist and *yelling* , and Aramis is taking him so deep, having him — 

Oh, all the way down his *throat*, and *no* one has done that for d'Artagnan — 

No one has been *able* to do that for d'Artagnan since he was a boy, and just — just playing *around*, and he's gasping for it, yelling more, making a *fool* of himself — 

But Aramis looks so dreamy-eyed, so hungry, so — full. 

His mouth is *stretched* — 

His —

Oh, God, d'Artagnan wants to stay in forever, wants to — 

But then Aramis grips his *balls*, presses them to his chin, his bearded *chin* — 

d'Artagnan has never *felt* — 

He's gasping and bucking — 

And *bucking* — 

And — 

"Oh, God, *Aramis*!" 

And Aramis is making *weird* noises, all jagged and rough and — 

They sound almost *punched* out of him, and — 

And then d'Artagnan realizes that it's just a moan, just a simple and hungry *moan* that *he's* chopping to pieces with the way he's *fucking Aramis's throat*, with — 

Oh, but it sounds so brutal, so — so dirty and *brutal* — 

He can't — 

Aramis *slurps* — 

Sucks — 

Sucks — manages to somehow suck so *hard*, and d'Artagnan *shouts* again, *yanks* Aramis's hair, and he can't stop — 

He's fucking Aramis so hard, fucking his *face*, and he looks so good, so happy and so *good*, like that collar *belongs* on him, like he's a pet, a boy, a — a — 

d'Artagnan doesn't *know*, but he wants it, loves it, wants everything *about* it, and he rolls them over, rolls Aramis onto his back — 

"Mmngh —:" 

Kneels over him and shoves in, *in* — 

And Aramis's eyes roll up in his *head* — 

His hands spasm on the *sheets* — 

He looks like he's about to *faint* — 

He looks like he's enjoying this so *much*, and d'Artagnan wants that, wants *everything* good for him — he'll give it to him. He'll give him everything, just like he promised, and if he doesn't understand something — 

If it seems strange or — or — 

He'll *ask*, and ask *again* if he has to, and he won't scold for no reason, unless it seems like it will make his brothers happy — 

Oh, he needs them, he needs them so *much*, and this — 

He needs — 

Aramis is still *moaning*, still jaggedly *moaning* even as he *gives* himself to d'Artagnan, sucking and swallowing, lipping and mouthing — 

So good — 

So good — 

"It's never been *like* this!" d'Artagnan shouts, and he's still pulling Aramis's hair, he's still — 

He's all but *looming* over Aramis, and his trousers are around his knees, and he can barely *fucking* see, because there's sweat in his eyes and he's dazed and this is — 

Is — 

And then Aramis starts swallowing again and again and *again*, fast and sharp and — 

Doing it even when it makes d'Artagnan *jar* him — 

*Hurt* him — 

*He's* bucking for it, bucking like he — loves it — 

And that — 

Oh that — 

d'Artagnan's *slick* with sweat and begging, begging Aramis not to stop, not to change, not to let him *go* — 

And Aramis's hands are *iron* on d'Artagnan's *hips*, but he never even *tries* to slow d'Artagnan *down* — 

d'Artagnan is *sobbing* for it, for the pain *he* can't feel, but suddenly wants more than *anything* — 

Oh, *Aramis* — 

Just — he needs — 

He groans and *yanks* one of Aramis's hands off his hip, bringing it back to his arse — "*Please*!" 

And Aramis *focuses*, just like that — 

Looks at him *hard* — and then narrows his eyes, and *strokes* d'Artagnan's cleft up and down and *up* again — 

d'Artagnan's rhythm stutters — 

He gasps — 

He opens his mouth to beg *again* — 

But then Aramis is pushing in, dry except for the sweat d'Artagnan now realizes he was gathering, dry and hot and rough and just painful enough, hot and dark and — 

And d'Artagnan *grunts*, rhythm stuttering again — 

And Aramis *thrusts* — 

And d'Artagnan *shouts*, stares at Aramis, *needs* — 

And Aramis is looking at him with such hunger, such affection, such — 

"I *need* you!" 

And Aramis fucks him, just *fucks* him with that finger, and it takes *forever* to realize he's using d'Artagnan's own rhythm, and when he does his belly drops, he makes a sound like a dying dog, his cock *spasms* in Aramis's *throat* — 

And he fucks Aramis harder — 

And Aramis fucks *him* harder — 

And d'Artagnan sobs, watching two tears *spatter* Aramis's *face* — "Please don't *stop*!" 

And neither of them do, neither — 

Not even when d'Artagnan starts to spend, desperate and hungry and clenching and — 

And he can't — 

And Aramis is still *moaning* — 

d'Artagnan is still chopping the moans to *pieces* — 

Aramis is licking the spend all *over* d'Artagnan's cock and it's so — 

Hot — 

So hot and dirty and slick and — 

And the sounds are even better, even messier — 

Oh, fuck, that's his spend leaking out of the corner of Aramis's *mouth* — 

d'Artagnan swipes it up and licks it, sucks it off his fingers, *slurps* it off his fingers — 

And. 

Eventually he can stop thrusting. 

And just. 

Just rest in Aramis's beautiful, swollen mouth. 

Not deep enough to choke him again. He can breathe.

Aramis is smiling up at him with his eyes and *holding* d'Artagnan's cock and — 

d'Artagnan moans and pulls *out* — 

"Oh, lovely brother, no, no —"

"You're so *hoarse* —" 

"This is a sign of a job well-begun, but —" 

"I need to kiss you," d'Artagnan says, and reaches back to tug at Aramis's hand — 

Aramis pulls out, slowly and gently — 

Sits up — "Yes? Kisses are what you need more than having your cock warmed...?" And *this* wicked smile is... different. 

Softer. 

Older and... warmer. More real. 

"I. I'm in love with that smile." 

Aramis *grins*. "I'm in love — and fear — with your growing ability to *read* me, little brother." 

d'Artagnan grins back. "Well, if I can read you, then that means I don't have to read any books, right?" 

Aramis snorts and shakes his head. "There are *good* books. *Exciting* books —" 

"Aramis, you think *Jesus* is exciting —" 

"The Christ is the most —" 

d'Artagnan covers Aramis's mouth. "Um. Not now?" 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. Pointedly. 

"I *know* I said I wanted to know, and I do, because it's you, and it's more you than pretty much anything that isn't how much you love *Porthos*. But." d'Artagnan licks his lips and drops his hand. "I want. I want to know more about you and Porthos now." 

Aramis inhales sharply — and licks his lips. "Do you wish to know what makes me hard...? Or what makes Porthos hard? Or —" 

"I was thinking... more about what made your fantasies dark... or bright." 

"Nnh — yes, we can go back to this. I will teach you myself, and then you will know me just as well as Porthos..." Aramis shivers and closes his eyes and smiles — 

And — "Do you — are you sure you want that? More people to know you?" Me to know you? 

"It is one of the things... I have been taught to want," he says, and opens his eyes again. They're wide, full, young — "I've never had it." 

"Oh. Oh... Aramis..." 

"Lie with me again — or, no, let's get out of these *clothes*, and *then* lie together."

And they do just that, cuddling on the tiny, hard bed just like it isn't made for *one* man their size — 

Aramis presses even closer and d'Artagnan stops caring how small the bed is. He's hard, and his body is hard, and he's warm, and he's a little damp with sweat, and his breath smells like d'Artagnan's *spend* — 

d'Artagnan goes for a kiss, and another — 

Another and another — 

And Aramis licks his *mouth* — 

Laughs — 

"This will not get you *talk*..." 

"Fuck, sorry —" 

"I will not let you apologize for this —" 

"Sometimes I would think of just — this. Lying in a bed and kissing you, and being kissed, while you said... God only knew what. Filthy things, probably," d'Artagnan says, and laughs ruefully — 

"That's beautiful —" 

"Aramis —" 

"You were dreaming of us being closer, being brothers, being — was Porthos ever there with us? Athos?" 

"Yeah, I... sometimes I would go to sleep just... kissing all of you. Dreaming of the feel of your different beards. The way you'd laugh at my smooth cheeks. The way you'd all, you know, touch them." 

Aramis gives him a *wondering* look, so warm, so — it's almost *covetous*. 

"Aramis?" 

"And this would be enough to satisfy you?" 

"Mm? Oh — no, not — well, sometimes, actually. When I'm... worn down. Really badly, you know." 

Aramis nods fervently. "When your body is too exhausted to ache for other things, for sex, you turn to your dreams of love that is, perhaps, more pure?" 

"Oh — yes." 

"And it is with us...?" And Aramis's voice is almost *small* for that — 

"Who else would it be with? I mean — Constance is there sometimes, too, but Constance is always there —" 

Aramis makes a hungry sound and *squeezes* d'Artagnan's hip. "I will always keep you close. I will always keep you safe —" 

"You won't threaten my life anymore?" And d'Artagnan is trying to smile, trying to joke, but — 

Aramis makes a low sound. "You're mine. You're *ours*." 

"I am — I — fuck, I really *am* —" 

Aramis groans and nuzzles d'Artagnan's mouth, kisses him, kisses him again — "Your enemies will not live long in this world —" 

"I know that, I know you'll take care of me any way you can —" 

"*Yes*," Aramis says, and it's almost hissed between his teeth — 

"You're so beautiful — fuck — I just. I just want to be —" 

"You don't want me to let go." 

"Please don't, please don't ever, I need you, I need you so *fucking* much —" 

Aramis kisses him soft, sweet, "I will never let go. *We* will never let go. We will show you our faith." 

"Oh, God —" 

"Now... let me tell you one of the ways Porthos made my world brighter." 

"Yes, *please*," d'Artagnan says, and he's cupping Aramis's arm, and Aramis is cupping his hip, and they're so *close* — 

d'Artagnan steals another *kiss* — 

And Aramis smiles and sighs. 

d'Artagnan smiles back — 

And Aramis nods. "This: Before Porthos told me why he never *approached* boys, as opposed to waiting for them to come to him, the boy in me had *many* dreams of Porthos stealing him away from the school, and riding them both to the garrison, and making him his boy, and... using him." 

"Oh. I..." 

"I... no. I'm saying this wrong," Aramis says, frowning and looking down. 

"You are? I mean — take all the time you —"

"The *using* was not the problem with the fantasies. It was the *way* Porthos would use the boy in me. The way he would be... not dismissive. Not *cruel*. Not *cold*." 

"Porthos would never —" 

"Exactly," Aramis says, and licks his lips. "But... there were elements of all of those things. The boy... was not Porthos's *love* in those fantasies." 

"Oh — no —" 

"He was not Porthos's *friend*, the way even the boys he rented for a *night* were his friend." 

"I. I think I'm starting to understand," d'Artagnan says.

Aramis looks up and studies him. "Yes?" 

"You... once you knew more about Porthos, you couldn't... the darker fantasies felt *false*. And you can't... maybe you can't lie to yourself?" 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "Oh... I would not say that. But... the lies become harder to tell when I am a boy... or an animal." 

d'Artagnan nods thoughtfully. "So... Porthos started making love with you in the fantasies?" 

Aramis shivers. "Every... every time. He would smile, and caress, and check for my pleasure... ah, it was so *intoxicating*. I would fall into my dreams and not want to wake *up*." 

"Oh. Aramis..." 

"And then, when I *did* wake up, I would loathe myself for them —" 

"*No* —" 

"The fact that a man likes an occasional boy does *not* mean that he wants a *man* to be an occasional boy, d'Artagnan." 

"Oh... fuck. This is one of the things that kept you away from him." 

"Oh, yes. Even as more and more of me fell more and more deeply in love with him. Piece by piece, yes?" 

d'Artagnan swallows and nods. 

"It was actually very quick after my dreams turned to making love."

"That makes perfect sense," d'Artagnan says. "You must've been..." He shakes his head. "Sometimes I feel almost drunk when I'm having one of my, you know, love-fantasies. And if I'd ever *seen* one of you after that..." 

Aramis grins. "You would've fallen into our arms?" 

"Well, actually, I probably would've been really twitchy and scolded you even more, but then if you *called* me on it..." 

Aramis laughs low and musically. "Lovely little brother. I promise to use all your secrets against you with malice aforethought." 

"Good! Share them with our brothers so they can, too!" 

"I *will*," Aramis says, and kisses d'Artagnan softly. "Sweet brother. I ache. Will you ease me?" 

d'Artagnan *barks* a cry — "Let me — *let* me —" 

"Anything —" 

"Turn *over* —" 

Aramis grins and does it *immediately* — 

d'Artagnan nearly falls off the *bed* — but he doesn't, and then he's on top of Aramis, scooting down the bed, cupping his perfect *arse* — 

Kissing the beauty marks — 

*Biting* them — 

"*Ah*!" 

"Do you like that?" 

"*Yes*!" 

"Should I —" 

"Please, please, d'Artagnan, kiss my hole, *eat* me!" 

d'Artagnan hears himself make a desperate sound, a *garbled* sound — 

He — 

"I — I — I never thought..." 

"Yes? Yes? What?" 

"You — you just begged for *that*." 

"We were talking — I thought you wanted —" 

"I *do*. But I never imagined anyone actually —" 

"Oh..." And Aramis turns enough to see him, grinning again and swiveling his hips. "You didn't think my *shame* would allow me to beg to be tasted...?" 

d'Artagnan groans — "Fuck — Aramis —" 

"Taste me. *Please* taste me." 

"I — *fuck* —" 

"Please get my *musk* on your *tongue*." 

d'Artagnan bucks at *nothing* — and spreads Aramis's arse *wide* — 

"*Ah* — please *shove* your tongue *deep* —" 

"Keep... keep *talking* —" 

"For as long as I can?" 

"Don't *stop*," d'Artagnan says, and leans in — 

And *breathes* — 

And — 

Sweat. Perfume *not* in his cleft, but right at the small of his *back* — 

"Oh. Fuck. You. Perfume —" 

"My Master, he allowed me to mark *myself* there. He allowed me to be *alluring*, because he said I might catch for us a pretty little brother —" 

"UNH — he — *he* —" 

Aramis laughs *hard* — 

"Did he *really* —"

"He *did*, lovely brother, little brother. And then he laughed and said that if you were close enough to smell as little as I used, then I would have already *caught* you —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"But, well, I could not offend my *Master's* nose, mm?" 

"He doesn't like this perfume? You can't —" 

Aramis laughs low and *dirty* — 

"Oh, God, that laugh is making me really *hard* again —" 

"*Good*. My Master, my Porthos, he likes this perfume *well*. *But*... he does not care for it in my cleft." 

"Oh. *Oh*. He likes you... natural." 

"He likes me *dirty*." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"What do *you* like, little brother? Mm? What do you want to bury your *face* in?" 

d'Artagnan growls. "*You*." 

"Just me? No perfume? Should I wash? Would you like to wash me yourself —" 

"*Yes* — I — but not *now*. Not *before*." 

Aramis laughs again. "*You* want me dirty, too, lovely brother? Are you certain of this?" 

"God, yes. I've done this — not a lot. Just... ten or so times, back home —" 

"Your friends must miss you *much*." 

"I miss *them*, but." d'Artagnan shakes his head. "I was telling Athos — they wouldn't like it. What I've been doing here. They hated how much time I spent training with the sword, the guns. They said I'd learned enough. They said — I *know* they're all waiting for me to go back to Gascony and take up my duties there, to run the *farms* now that my father is — please don't make me think —" 

"*Kiss* me, lovely brother. Let me feel your mouth. See how I clench? See how I pucker and flex? I — ahn — oh — oh, *yes*!" 

And d'Artagnan takes that, lets it cover him, lets it *hold* him as he kisses — 

Kisses that hole like a *mouth* — 

Aramis *tastes* like musk, like oil — from last night?

There's a little soap, too, but not *much* — 

Not enough to be offensive — 

He tastes like a *man*, and it's deep and dark and hot, raw, wonderful — 

"Oh, brother, little brother, give me your *tongue*!" 

Aramis knows what he *wants*, and d'Artagnan can't help wondering at that, at what it *says* about Aramis that he knows what he wants for something like *this* — 

At how *experienced* he *must* be — 

But he can give Aramis his tongue — 

Push *deep* — 

Taste more oil — and maybe traces of Porthos's spend? Oh, God — 

That — 

That faint bitterness, that *different* musk — 

And all of a sudden he's on his knees in his mind, sucking Porthos's big cock — 

Going back and forth between Porthos's big cock and Aramis's *arse* — 

*Preparing* Aramis's arse with his mouth *for* Porthos's cock — 

And that feels right, feels *good*, feels — 

He *groans* into Aramis's arse, vaguely aware of his choked cries, his shouted *yesses* — 

He groans and grinds his *face* in, wishing he had a beard like Porthos or Athos, wishing he had *something* to make this even better, even more — 

"Oh, *God* —" 

But Aramis likes it, Aramis likes the way he *feels* — 

"More, please, *please*, lovely brother —" 

He won't stop, he won't — 

He'll *taste* Aramis, and tease him, and *fuck* him with his tongue — 

"*Yes*!" 

Fuck him fast, fuck him — no. No, slow, *slow* — 

Aramis clenches *tight* — 

*Shakes* under him — 

d'Artagnan keeps it up, holds his hips, grinds his nose and chin — 

"Fuck — oh — *fuck* —" And Aramis laughs again, almost — almost croons — "You will make me ache for you, lovely d'Artagnan! You will make me wish for what I cannot *have*." 

d'Artagnan grunts, but — 

He pulls back — 

Aramis *whimpers* — "Please please —" 

"What — what can't you have?" 

Aramis *pants* and shivers — 

Moans and *laughs* — 

"*Tell* me! I — I'll *fix* it —" 

"Oh, d'Artagnan, you — mm. You cannot 'fix' the size and heft and *girth* of your mighty and beautiful cock!" 

"What — oh. Oh." 

Aramis laughs *dirtily* again — 

Pushes *up* with his arse — 

"Oh, fuck, Aramis, don't make me *want* —" 

"But I must leave you with happy thoughts for another time!" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"A time when our Porthos has fucked his boy, his pet, his kitten into shape —" 

"His — what —" 

Aramis snickers *like* a boy — 

Probably one *older* than the one Porthos was fucking last night, but not by *much* — 

"You're such a — well," d'Artagnan says, and leans in to *suck* that hole — 

"AHN —" 

Yeah, make that noise, make that noise all the *time*, and d'Artagnan sucks and *fucks* that puffy, swollen hole, hums *loudly* into it — 

"Oh — *fuck* — nah — *AHN* —" 

And Aramis is writhing, fucking against the mattress, flexing and clenching around him randomly — 

*Quivering* — 

d'Artagnan nods and fucks him faster, sucks what *must* be a little *painfully* — 

Aramis *screams*, stilling all over — 

Oh — 

"Please! *Please*!" 

d'Artagnan takes that as an *order* and keeps sucking, tries to scrape his teeth a little — 

"Nah — *d'Artagnan*! Please! *Please*!" 

And it's too much not to touch him, not to slip one hand under that still, tense body and *squeeze* that cock the way he used to squeeze Marc's back home, to tug and scratch and *work* that foreskin — 

Aramis screams again — 

*Again* — 

*Sobs* — 

And then he *fucks* d'Artagnan's fist as he spurts, pumping hot spend all over d'Artagnan's hand and his own belly — 

Fuck — 

*Fuck* — 

d'Artagnan pulls back, turns Aramis over, sucks him *in* —

Gets another *scream* — 

"Little *brother* —" 

And then those deft, deadly hands are in his hair, yanking and pulling just right, just *right* — 

Pulling him *in* — 

d'Artagnan gulps — 

*Swallows* — 

Aramis splashes the back of his throat with spend — 

The feel is amazing, marking, *possessive* — 

d'Artagnan blushes and *fucks* himself on Aramis's cock, Aramis's *beautiful* cock — 

Aramis *howls* — 

"Now *that's* a beautiful sound — and a beautiful *sight*," *Porthos* says — 

Oh — 

d'Artagnan looks — 

He's in the *doorway* — 

*With* Athos *and* the arseholes — 

The arseholes are *grinning* — 

Athos isn't. 

Athos — 

Shit. 

d'Artagnan pulls back and licks his lips — 

Aramis sits up on his elbows with a *smile* — "Welcome *back*. Was your trip as fruitful and pleasurable —" 

"As your morning?" The big one — Kitos — booms laughter. "I bloody doubt it! I bet you wish you stayed now, eh, Athos?" 

And, for a moment, Athos looks as though he can't decide *where* to look. And then he turns toward the *door* — "Excuse me —" 

"*Oh*, no," Porthos says, and *grips* Athos's arm. "Not a bit of that. We're bloody talking about *whatever's* in that head of yours —" 

"Now is very clearly *not* the time —" 

"Athos," d'Artagnan says, and — he's pleading. He can't not.

Athos stiffens —

And Porthos uses that moment to *yank* him over to the bed next to the one he and Aramis are on — 

Treville nods in approval — 

And Reynard raises an eyebrow. "We could, if you'd like, make ourselves scarce...?" 

"Too many of the other men have seen you already," Porthos says, and all but *throws* Athos on the other bed — 

"*Porthos* —" 

"Stay *put*," Porthos says, and then turns back to the arseholes. "Just — can you *be* unobtrusive while we work this little wrinkle out?" 

The arseholes look at each other. 

Wag their heads — 

And then look back at them. "Absolutely bloody not," Treville says, with a dirty grin. "But we can fake it." 

Porthos snorts like he *likes* the man or something — "You *do* that, then," he says, and sits next to Athos. 

Treville leads the others into the old washroom, and — 

And they're too *quiet* — 

d'Artagnan doesn't *trust* that — 

Aramis laughs softly. "They may very well be plotting mayhem, little brother, but that is not our concern at *this* moment." 

d'Artagnan blinks — 

Blushes *hard* — and turns to Athos, who is facing the *wall*. 

And. 

And he's so stiff, so — 

"Athos... Athos, please. If you're — well, you're obviously angry, and I want — please talk to me *about* that. I thought —" 

"I'm not. Angry," Athos says, and it sounds like he's *tearing* the words out of his *chest*. 

"Um." 

"Perhaps you could tell us what you *are*, then," Aramis says, gently. 

Athos's jaw *flexes* — "Let me go." 

And that's when d'Artagnan notices that Porthos is holding Athos by the *wrist* — 

*Fuck* — 

"That's not going to happen, *yet*, mate," Porthos says. 

Athos growls. "Now I'm angry." 

Porthos sighs. "I'm *sorry*, Athos, but you said it yourself — we've too many secrets among us —" 

"Haven't I given *enough* today?" And he turns to look at all of them — and stops at Aramis before looking *ashamed*... and looking down. 

Aramis winces. "d'Artagnan wished to spare you from having to tell me the secret of your past, friend Athos. I know... I know." 

Athos inhales with a shudder. "And you still — no. Let me go." 

"All right, here's what this looks like," Porthos says, "and you *will* stop me and *correct* me if I'm wrong, because we're mates, and brothers, and you bloody *told* me that you wanted to be even *more* than that." 

Aramis raises an eyebrow — 

Athos flushes *deeply* — and says nothing. 

And keeps looking *down* — 

"Right," Porthos says, and squeezes Athos's wrist hard. "You're a mess over Aramis and d'Artagnan making love. For *some* reason. Are you jealous?" 

Athos is silent — 

Silent — 

*Silent* — 

"*Athos*." 

"Yes," Athos says, quietly. 

"All right, then. Are you jealous because you think d'Artagnan is faithless?" 

"*No*!" 

"Are you jealous because you think Aramis is going to try to take him from you? Take your *love* from you?" 

d'Artagnan can see Athos's *face* working even though his head is down — 

Aramis is *flushed* — 

"I know. Perfectly well," Athos says, "that Aramis would never... treat anyone he respected. That way." 

And there's a silence for a moment, from all of them — 

d'Artagnan feels like he's breathing too *loudly* — 

Fuck, no — "*Athos*, do you think Aramis doesn't respect you? Do you think I would *let* anyone take me away from you?" 

"I think Aramis has little enough *reason* to respect me. And I think I've given you little enough reason to want to stay with me," Athos says, and looks up. 

d'Artagnan rears *back* — 

Aramis *growls* — 

And Porthos drags his other hand down over his face before releasing Athos's wrist — 

Athos looks *stunned* — and *unhappy* — 

And then Porthos *smacks* him — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"You earned that, mate," Porthos says, and then locks his hand around Athos's wrist again. "I mean, really, I *told* you I'd beat you if you ever got drunk enough to make yourself honestly *stupid*." 

"I... don't remember that conversation." 

"You were drunk." 

"I —" 

"You were *piss*-drunk, and I was busily drowning you in a bucket to try to sober you up enough to pass muster so that we *both* didn't wind up in the shit." 

Athos licks his lips. "Did it work?" 

"No." 

"Ah." 

"So, really, I owe you two beatings." 

"Or... several —" 

"We can talk about that," Porthos says, judiciously. "We can talk about that at length and in *depth*." 

"I —" 

"But first," Porthos says — 

And releases him — 

And smacks him *hard* — 

"*Ow* —" 

"You're a sodding *idiot*." 

"I'm *getting* that. What I'm *not* getting is any — any explanation —" 

"Athos," Aramis says, in a *clipped* voice. "You are my *brother*. I have *no* brothers whom I do not love, and I do not love those I do not *respect*." 

Athos inhales sharply — and looks at Aramis like he's saying something new and different and honestly *strange* — 

"For fuck's *sake*, Athos, you've known him for *years*!" 

Athos shakes his head slowly — 

Aramis bares his *teeth* — 

*d'Artagnan* wants to hit him — 

"I. I've known nothing," Athos says. "I've been nothing." 

"You've been one of *us*!" And Aramis sounds close to pulling a *knife* — 

"No, I —" 

Aramis *snarls* — 

"I've given you all *parts* of me, miserly and weak and — I'll give you *more*. I'll *be* more. I. If. If that's... welcome." 

Aramis *blinks* — 

d'Artagnan takes a breath — 

And Athos turns to *him*. "I — I didn't sleep. I dreamed of you all night. Your taste, your scents, your *touch*. I dreamed of what it would *feel* like to have you in my bed — the grain of your *skin* —" 

"Oh — *Athos* —" 

"I was restless and hot and exhausted and needy and I — it was all so much better than anything has been in so *long*," Athos says, and huffs that little not-laugh of his. "You make me feel *alive*, d'Artagnan. And I thought, for a moment, that I was going to be dead again." 

And d'Artagnan — can't. He gets up and crouches at Athos's feet, and reaches up to cup his face — "I love you. There's — I *love* you."

"And. And we are all. Your family," Athos says.

d'Artagnan licks his *own* lips — and pulls Athos in so he can lick *his* — 

Athos makes a *hungry* sound — 

"Yeah. And we're yours." 

"Mine — I don't —" 

"You do." 

"You *do*," Aramis says. 

"You sodding do," Porthos says. "Don't make me hit you again. I'm sweet on you, and it feels wrong." 

Athos blinks — 

Frowns — 

"That was... something of a horrible sentence?" 

"Yeah, I realized that as it was leaving my mouth, but there was nothing I could do about it." 

"Mm." And then Athos smiles. It's small, and fragile-looking, and *cautious* — not like he thinks he's going to be hit for it; he can *take* a hit; but like he thinks he's going to be laughed at for it, or maybe just horribly betrayed again.

Left alone. 

d'Artagnan turns Athos to face him. "We can have this. All of us." 

"You have... so much faith." 

d'Artagnan grins. "Yeah, I do. In all of us. We — we can take care of each other." 

Athos takes a sharp breath. "It's what you want?" And he searches d'Artagnan hard, *urgently*. "It's what you *want*." 

d'Artagnan *blinks* — "*Yes*, Athos. I — I don't want to be lonely anymore. And I'm sick of giving just parts of *myself* to all of you and pretending there isn't a whole lot more I *want* to give. And want you all to *take*." 

Athos growls. "I want to take everything from you," he says, and his eyes are so *dark* — 

"And give me everything? Give *us* everything?" 

*Athos* blinks — and smiles wryly. "I'll need — help. I don't know how to *do* that — but I want to. I. Please," he says, and looks to all of them again. "None of you must think I don't want to."

Porthos cups the back of Athos's neck — 

Aramis *grins* — "We will be *very* helpful." 

"Oh, yeah. Helping is what we do," Porthos says. 

"Helping is what we are!" 

"Helping is — uh. So important." 

"Especially naked helping," Aramis says. 

"We are *very* in favour of the naked helping," Porthos says. 

Athos blushes. "I." 

"Mm? What is it, mate?" 

"I'm... having a difficult time comprehending the fact that you're — both — giving me another chance." 

"I never stopped wanting to jump down your trousers, mate," Porthos says. 

"Oh. Oh —" 

"And *I*," Aramis says, "am enjoying a *burgeoning* of my interest in jumping down your trousers, given what our little brother has told me about just *how* you chose to make love with him." And he licks his lips *slowly*. 

Athos and d'Artagnan blush *together* — 

"What's *this*, then?" And Porthos looks backs and forth between them — 

"I —" 

"Um..." 

Aramis laughs *filthily*. "Athos pissed in our little brother's *mouth*, my Master." 

"*Fuck* —" 

Athos covers his *face* — 

"Athos did this while our little brother was *sucking* him most *lovingly* —

"Oh my *God*, that's hot —" 

d'Artagnan laughs nervously. "It really was. I couldn't keep myself from tossing myself *off* —" 

"*Nicely done*," Porthos says, and gives Athos a shake by the neck. "Now I want to hit you for keeping your prick pinned back for years, mate." 

"I." 

"You're clearly a bloody virtuoso in hiding." 

Athos drops his hand. 

Blinks.

And turns to look at Porthos. Slowly. 

Porthos grins and waggles his eyebrows. 

"Porthos." 

Porthos grins *wider*, sticking his tongue out between his teeth and waggling *that* — 

And Athos — huffs. "I'm going to send you into the washroom with our *guests*. You clearly belong with them." 

"We'll take him!" Kitos calls. "He sounds like a good time!" 

Porthos snickers and wheezes. 

"Is it bloody safe out there, yet?" Treville calls. "Got your tender feelings sorted?" 

"If you need it," Reynard calls, "I will happily advise you all in the ways of love —" 

d'Artagnan stares at the door to the washroom. "Are you *sure* we can't shoot them?" 

"I *truly* am, lad," Porthos says, and takes a deep breath, waving the arseholes in. "Time to talk about what all happened today." 

d'Artagnan sighs. 

He supposes he *can* put his trousers back — 

"Sodding shit, boy, you're hung like one of the horses," Kitos says. "Good on you!" 

Treville grins. *Right* at d'Artagnan's cock. 

He's *absolutely* about to say *something* about d'Artagnan's parentage or — love-life — 

But Kitos smacks him first — 

"*Ow*." 

And then *winks* at d'Artagnan. "We stallions have to stick *together*, lad." 

... right.


	9. No missed chances.

It *had* seemed like a good idea — like the *only* idea — to be up and ready to go back to the de Tréville estates bright and early, but...

When Porthos and Aramis had gotten back to the plague barracks — 

Well, the *noises* had said everything that needed to be *said*, but Porthos hadn't been able to stop himself from walking in, hadn't been able to stop himself from *taking* in everything there was to *see* about a Treville on his knees with Reynard spread over his lap — 

Reynard bouncing on his *cock* and *yelling*, *muffled*, around the part of Kitos's prick he could take *in*. 

And — 

("C'mon, c'mon, fox-face, you can take more, you can — you got a real little cock-slut in you — and good morning, you two! Give us a minute, hey?") 

And really, what could you do at that point? 

Porthos had snickered and sat down on one of the beds, arm around a bloody *hooting* Aramis — 

Who had started offering *suggestions* — 

("You have a very *thick* cock, Treville, for all of its ultimately unsurprising inhumanity..." 

"That. I. *Do*." 

"You could, if you wished, *flex* it between thrusts...?")

Treville had *coughed* a laugh — 

And then Reynard had started grunting, moaning, wriggling and bouncing *more* — 

Treville had *groaned* — 

Kitos had staggered and huffed — "Shit, fox-face, you — you like it that much?" 

Drool had dripped from Reynard's *chin* — 

Kitos had *groaned* — 

("Fuck fuck — get your *hand* up here, Reynard, hold me, hold me, keep me from — from *fucking* you —") 

Reynard had shaken his head — 

Treville had thrust *hard* — 

Reynard had *yelled* around Kitos's cock — 

("Ah, shit. Well, lads, this — this is going to be — even faster —") 

And Kitos had gripped Reynard by his long hair — 

Wrapped it round and round his *fist* — 

Treville had growled, pumped, back-muscles *flexing* — 

Big *knot* flexing, and what — 

What would that even *feel* like?

How had he managed *not* to give it to Reynard, who'd been *bouncing* on it, riding his prick wild and hot and *fast* — 

Aramis had reached over and given *Porthos* a squeeze — 

("Fuck — *thank* you, pet —" 

"You are welcome, my Master...") 

And that had been — something else, something wild, something *mad* — 

That Aramis would say that — 

That he would *offer* that, in front of — 

Saying 'pet' is a lot bloody *different* than saying — or it could be. 

And Porthos had had to kiss him hard, kiss him hot, kiss him down to the bed they were sitting on while the sounds from over *there* got nastier, hotter, sweeter — 

Reynard had been gulping like a man who'd been swallowing cocks for years, like a man of *custom*, and Kitos had been groaning, moaning, moaning so *low* — 

So hungry and *loving* and *low* — 

And Aramis's sweet laughter had sounded so good with that, so right, somehow so *right* — 

And Treville had been grunting, growling — 

"Reynard — *Reynard* — fuck, you're perfect, I always knew you'd be bloody *perfect*, both of you, I *love* you —" 

And Porthos could *feel* his honesty, his need, his *love* — 

But he could also feel how *happy* he'd been to share that with *him* — 

To *show* Porthos, show him everything from his hot-weird body, to the way *he* went about fucking the hell out of a beautiful and *dangerous* man, to the way — 

And he'd howled — 

And Porthos had had to *bite* Aramis in promise and then look *up* —

*Watch* all the muscles in Treville's body stand *out* as he'd *undoubtedly* filled Reynard's arse with spend — 

As he'd gripped him tight, so *tight* — 

And then *bitten* — 

Right on his long, bruised *throat* — 

Reynard had *choked* on Kitos's cock — 

Kitos had cursed and bucked and growled like a giant *boar*, fucking in wildly for long moments — 

The scents had been so — 

Reynard had *obviously* been trying and failing to toss his *head* — and then he'd *relaxed*, all *over* — 

Gulped Kitos *in* again — 

Treville had bitten *harder* — 

And then Treville had pried one hand off Reynard's hip and started working Reynard's pretty cock, hard and fast and sweet, so sweet, so *knowing* and sweet, not testing or awkward, at all — 

(I've watched him toss himself off countless times, Porthos...) 

And, just like last night, it had been a *jar* to hear Treville in his head — 

But, just like last night, it *hadn't* been a surprise. 

Porthos had licked his lips and turned to kiss the question on Aramis's face. And — 

Does it feel as good as it looks to do it, Treville?

(I want to share it with you. I want you to feel his soft skin, his heat, the *jerks* as I *please* him —) 

His tight arse? And Porthos had meant to tease *hard*, to force Treville to *think* about what he'd been saying and thus put a *stop* —

(Yes.) 

Fuck — 

(I want to give everything to you,) Treville had said, rolling his shoulders and pressing his mouth to Reynard's ear — "Spend for us. Spend so hard you go *blind* for a minute."

And Reynard had groaned, getting it all fucked and chopped by Kitos's thrusts, Kitos's faster and faster — 

Kitos had *boomed* breathless laughter — "I certainly — certainly bloody will!" And then he'd yanked Reynard's head *back* by the hair and fucked *down* into his throat — 

Porthos could *just* see hints of the man's expression — 

(Stunned. Blissful. He's never known anything like this.) 

Have you? And Porthos hadn't meant to *ask* — 

(I want you to ask — I've had some time to *think* about what I am to you —) And Treville had growled and *bitten* Reynard's ear, tugged his foreskin, squeezed his cock, *scratched* his foreskin — 

Reynard had *screamed*, gulped, drooled, choked, gulped *again* — 

(I accidentally connected — bound — the three of us —) 

What — *what*? 

(And bound the three of us to *you* —) 

Bloody —

(But they can't perceive this. I'm distracting them, hiding you. I will have them ask your permission —) 

The way you sodding didn't? 

(The way I can't. I. I. I'm your dog,) Treville had said, and had licked Reynard, licked his face, his throat, his cheeks, his sideburns, his *ears* — 

Everywhere he could reach — 

So *hungrily* — 

And Porthos had known that Treville wanted to lick *him* that way, too, wanted — 

That permission. 

And Treville had started bouncing Reynard on his cock again — 

Doing it *while* playing with his cock, working and *torturing* his cock — 

Reynard had started swallowing and swallowing and — fuck, *sobbing* — 

Kitos had *growled* again, *slammed* in, knocking both of them *back* — ("Fuck, *sorry* — I *can't* —") 

And he'd bucked and groaned, shuddering and stiffening — 

(Can you feel him spending? Can you smell it, Porthos?) 

I — it's just, for me, how *greedy* Reynard looks, how, he's —

(Slurping, sucking more, trying to suck harder —) 

His jaw must *hurt* — 

(He doesn't care, he doesn't — he needs this, he needs all of our brother —) 

*Both* of you, fuck, he's *gulping* again — 

(Losing himself. Losing... oh, Reynard, toujours pas assez —) 

And Porthos feels Treville pulling away — 

Feels the *tug* of separation like something — something strange, or wrong — 

(Oh.) 

*Fuck*, Treville — 

(I'll never be far,) he'd said, and *bitten* Reynard again — 

Bitten and bitten and Porthos had had to bite Aramis — 

Reynard had *screamed* — 

Aramis had groaned, guttural and *low* — 

Porthos had been hard, so *hard* — 

Unable to think of anything but bindings, the possibilities — 

He'd been touching Aramis's *collar* — 

Aramis had *bucked* — 

And. 

He'd felt it when Reynard had spent. Felt the clenches, the quivers, the shuddering *flexes* — 

Just like Treville had *said* — 

And Porthos had been shuddering, too, shuddering and *needing* — 

To share. 

To *give* — 

But could he really give Aramis to Treville? 

Could that even *possibly* — 

(I would take him, and be humbled —) 

And then Kitos had groaned again, pulling out of Reynard's stretched mouth slowly, carefully, gently — 

Reynard had been moaning and *shivering* — 

Treville had given himself *over* to holding and stroking him — 

Kitos had dropped into a heavy crouch and joined in the petting — 

And there'd been no part of Porthos which couldn't understand that, couldn't understand the need to *focus* on that *care* — 

Which, Porthos supposes, is how they've gotten *here* — silent in the plague barracks with their loves, silent and kissing and stealing glances, silent and neatening the beds here and there — 

Silent — 

Until Kitos clears his throat like a musket-crack — 

Claps his hands like a crate collapsing — 

"Right, boys, are we talking about all that silent yakkity-yak going on between Treville and Porthos?"

Shit — 

Treville smiles like — like the boy he *barely* isn't. "Well, it's not going on *now*." 

Reynard *looks* at Treville from where he's doing up the training leathers he'd borrowed. "Mon cher has been keeping more secrets...?" 

He doesn't sound *especially* different from Aramis when Aramis is about to pull a knife. 

And, for that matter — 

*Aramis* doesn't look like he's about to pull a knife on *Porthos* — he always forgives *Porthos* for his sins entirely too *quickly* — but he *is* giving a bloody dangerous look to Treville, and that could get hairy *fast*. 

Porthos clears his own throat. "We were talking about — who we are to each other. Learning a bit more about that."

Aramis blinks —

But Reynard and Kitos just sort of nod a little and look *approving*. 

(They were ready for this. They've known me... Kitos wants me to adopt you when we get back home —) 

What do *you* want? 

(Anything that gets me more of you,) Treville says, and turns to the room as a whole. "I'm not averse to sharing with any of you, or," he says, to Aramis, "with your other mates. But there were and are things I need to say to Porthos first, and let him decide what *he* will —" 

"They can know everything about me. There's *nothing* about me that doesn't belong to my brothers, too." 

For that, Treville looks at him like he's said something bloody perfect and *special*, as opposed to completely *normal* — 

Treville looks at him like a father would. 

Treville looks at him — like the Captain does, sometimes. 

(Well, there you are, then.) And he grins and *winks* —

And Porthos can't help just — snorting. 

"I would like to know what *exactly* you have discussed silently with Treville, my Porthos," Aramis says, and leans back against the opposite wall — he's done neatening the last bed. "I would like to know what it *is* that belongs to all of us." 

"I would like the same," Athos says, moving into the barracks with that quality of clipped efficiency that means he's not only sober this morning, but is actually not *regretting* that much. 

Porthos blinks for that — 

He can *feel* Aramis doing the same — 

They're *both* examining him for signs and cues and — 

Where *is* d'Artagnan?

Athos, who is *never* an idiot, knows *exactly* what they're thinking — but, instead of calling them back to the topic at hand... he blushes. 

Just a little.

Just *enough*. 

Well, then. 

*That* is a topic not for sharing — 

(Except by necessity?) 

For fuck's sake — 

(Sorry, sorry, I'll be — something like — a good boy.) 

Will you?

(No.)

And Porthos is *about* to ask Kitos to smack the man —

But then Athos takes a sharp breath, looks *up* — and looks at Porthos expectantly. 

Right. "He's my dog." 

Aramis flushes — 

And Athos raises an eyebrow. 

And both of those reactions — demand a lot more explanation. Right now. Porthos takes a deep breath — 

"I'm his *literal* dog," Treville says, smiling wryly from where Reynard's hanging on him like another, prettier cloak — "And I've some of the anatomy to prove it." 

"That you do, Basset!" And Kitos laughs. "But give these folks a little more, eh?" 

Treville grunts. "The way it was explained to me — when I wasn't paying *nearly* enough attention to keep my *head* — was that I was *aligned* with canines, to a certain extent, when I was only a — weak — human witch. I thought that meant that I just liked dogs a lot, that I understood them a bit better than some, and it did, but it also meant that I could be... connected and *merged* with a canine spirit of sorts — these are *not* the words the witches used, and I'm *quite* sure I'm saying this at least a bit wrong —" 

"We understand this thing," Aramis says, and he's still flushed. "Please go on." 

"Thank you," Treville says. "They were, not to put too fine a point on it, augmenting my power, and they needed to find a *path* to do that. A path to the power and a path to *allow* the augmentation in the first place. The dog is what allowed that. The dog is the only thing that *could* have — with me, anyway. And, since I was being bound to Porthos and Amina, the dog defined my relationship to them." 

Athos lifts his chin. "We never saw any sign of this with our Treville." 

"Ah, well. He's had a quarter-century to learn how to hide. And I've been thinking on this. You blokes mentioned your *father*, Athos, but you didn't say a word about my other brothers, here. You don't know a thing *about* them." 

Fuck — 

"Frankly, that can mean only one thing." 

"That we die young and pretty," Reynard says, and smiles wryly. 

"Or, to be fair, just young," Kitos says, and laughs ruefully. 

"You're *going* to show us the Musketeer annals," Treville says. "You're going to show us how we can..." Treville shakes his head and looks at Porthos. "If you have any *question* about how your Treville could've grown into such a secretive *bastard* — well, I have *one* answer for you." 

Porthos *looks* at Treville — 

At the way Reynard is right there *on* him, saying everything in the world even though they're all fully-dressed and not *technically* doing anything unfit — or 'unfit'. 

At the way Kitos is right there ready to *scruff* them — or hug them. 

Or kiss them. 

Or all of the above. 

At the way it's *abundantly* clear — 

"They never — everybody gives the three of you a wide berth, don't they," Porthos says. "They all know you're trouble *walking*, and there are just as many *legends* about you as there are *true* stories." 

The three of them look at each other — 

*Grin* at each other — 

And Kitos pats his belly and nods judiciously. "Mayhap that's so, mayhap that's so." 

And Treville raises an eyebrow. "I daresay the same is true about the four of you." 

Aramis grins. "And the three of us, before we had our d'Artagnan." 

"And where *is* the lad this morning, hey? It's been hours since someone's threatened to kill me; I'm feeling antsy about it," Kitos says. 

And *that* — 

"You really didn't tell him that we'd be heading out earlier today, did you, Athos." 

Athos opens his mouth *just* like he's going to say something about how d'Artagnan should've known — 

Porthos gets ready to *really* look at him — 

He shuts his gob, just like he should. 

"Right," Porthos says. "We should bloody leave you *behind* —" 

"*I* will stay behind, and talk to d'Artagnan, and find out exactly where the annals are kept, and, perhaps, get the information we need," Aramis says. 

Athos *flushes* — 

Turns away — 

Turns *back* — "If... there is a personal matter I would like to discuss with. Both of you. At your convenience," he says, and his voice is low, and heavy, and *dark* — 

That didn't sound like it had anything to *do* with d'Artagnan —

Aramis and Porthos frown together, and Porthos nods when he can. "Of course, mate." 

"We are here," Aramis says, tipping his hat to all of them and then moving *closer* to Porthos — 

Close enough — 

Porthos growls and pulls him *in* — 

Aramis grins, catching his falling hat with nimble fingers —

There's a *hopeful* light in his eyes — and it's all about what Porthos can say, right here. 

And what he can give *Aramis* a chance to say — in front of Athos. 

"Gonna miss you today, pet." 

Aramis *beams*. "My Master can call on me at *any* time." 

Porthos growls. "Your Master would call on you day and night, *every* day and night, if he could." 

"This is so?" 

"Your Master loves you more than anything in this world." 

And Aramis reaches up to touch his collar — 

Purses his lips — 

And Porthos has to kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him *harder* when Aramis laughs into his mouth and starts walking them to the *door* — 

Lick his teeth — 

Muss his *beard* — 

And, when they break — 

"I am *yours*," Aramis says, and kisses him *softly* — 

"I'll never let you go. Not bloody ever." 

"I..." 

"Mm? What is it?" 

Aramis steps into him, and nuzzles up to his ear. "I would fear, a little — or perhaps more than this — if Treville did not have loves of his own. I. I need you to know this." 

Because he still *does* fear. Because — 

Porthos cups the back of Aramis's neck — 

*Grips* it and kisses *Aramis's* ear again, again and again — 

"It is only — you are ready to *trust* them —" 

"I am. And right about now I'm ready to trust them to teach me how to bind me to *you*. Forever."

Aramis gasps — 

"That's a lie," Porthos says, and *bites* Aramis's ear. "I've been ready for that for bloody *years*." 

"Oh. Porthos..." And Aramis sounds so happy, so wondering and *happy* — 

Porthos growls. "We'll be back as soon as we can. I promise," he says, and forces himself to pull back. 

"Yes, my Master," Aramis says, and ducks his head. 

Porthos strokes him, just the way he likes — 

Just the way that gets that shiver and *sigh* — 

And then he forces himself to *step* back — 

And then Aramis looks up and bloody *mews* at him, and that's not *fair* — 

But then he's laughing and tossing his hair and jogging backwards down the bloody stairs and — 

And somehow, even with their Treville missing, even with Athos being an *especially* dark cloud right *there*, even with all this bloody *strangeness* — it's an incredible day. 

The best day. 

Porthos grins and claps the jamb hard, before turning back to face the others. "Right, what's the plan?" 

Athos *looks* at him. 

"Why are you looking at me, mate? You — oh. Right. You're not qualified to make these plans." 

"He's the leader all the time? Just like his father?" Kitos sounds like he wants to coo, a bit. 

Reynard *looks* like he wants to. 

Treville is just grinning, probably because he can tell that Athos is terrified of them saying something *else* about his father. 

Porthos tugs his gloves into place a little better and jerks his chin at Treville. "Thought *you* were the leader, mate." 

Treville shows his *teeth* — there's a *definite* bloody difference — 

And Reynard kisses Treville's cheek. "Mon cher, he is notre *meneur*." 

Kitos booms more laughter and claps *both* Reynard and Treville on the shoulders. "Our ringleader of ringleaders." 

Treville growls a laugh and turns round to nip Kitos's fingers — 

"*Watch* that, Basset, I'm not a bloody chew-toy!"

"I, on the other hand," Reynard says — 

And Treville lunges for him — 

And Kitos yanks Reynard back out of Treville's *range* — 

And Reynard snickers *breathlessly* — 

And Porthos moves up next to Athos. "Do we look like this to other people, d'you think?" 

Athos looks horrified — and then thoughtful. "Perhaps when we're drunk?" 

"We usually *are* drunk, mate." 

Athos looks *pained*. "A part of me is only waiting for *our* Treville to step out from behind... *something* now that we've all learned our lesson." 

Porthos blinks. "We've learned a lesson?"

Athos just... looks. At him. 

Porthos licks his lips. 

Athos keeps looking for a little longer. And *then* he does that thing where he clears his throat *quietly* and makes the room stop —

Kitos still looks like he wants to coo — 

"I presume the first step of our plan is riding out to the de Tréville estates?" And Athos looks at all of them. 

"It is," Treville says, and straightens *his* borrowed training leathers. "I've an idea which property I would've given to Ife, assuming I didn't change *that* much." 

Porthos nods. "And you know what questions to ask her?" 

Treville grins at him, young and wry at once. "She'll take one look at us — one *feel* of us coming up the way — and know what *answers* we need." 

"But will she *have* them, cher?" And Reynard is searching Treville hard. 

Kitos and Athos are, too. 

Treville's grin slips a little — he smiles ruefully. "That's the hope, isn't it? Let's eat some miles." 

They go to do just that, sending their visitors out of the garrison to wait for Porthos and Athos to take their horses and three borrowed ones for them. 

That involves a bit of fast-talking for the stableboys — 

A painful number of innocent questions about the Captain and what he might have Porthos and Athos doing *this* time — 

And then they're finally mounted and on the road, Treville wearing a godawful straw hat to hide his face. 

Kitos and Reynard trade a seemingly *never-ending* supply of obscene comments about farm-life across Treville's head... 

And Athos and Porthos ride behind, Porthos deliberately setting a slower pace *and* riding a little closer to Athos's black than he usually does... 

Just in case... 

Not pressuring or anything *like* that... 

Definitely not *obsessing* about — "All right, mate, you're killing me a little." 

Athos smiles that wintry little — 

"*Come* on —" 

"Ask a question." 

"*d'Artagnan*." 

For a moment, Athos actually looks a little *surprised*, just as if — 

"Look, I'm not going to ask about the 'personal matter' on bloody horseback —" 

Athos huffs. "I wish you would." 

Porthos blinks — 

"— some manure for our meneur!" 

And the three of them are snickering like bloody *kids* up there, Christ, but — 

"Athos, what —" 

"Well, for one thing." 

"*What*?" 

"It would allow a ready means of escape," he says, and huffs again — 

And again — 

And — 

And when he does that — huff more than *once* at a time, enough times that you can almost believe he'll come close to *really* laughing — it's always an event. Something *special*. 

It's just usually a bloody *problematic* kind of special, because Athos's sense of humour is just as terrible as the rest of theirs, it's just that his is also black as bloody pitch.

So. 

"The personal matter's pretty bloody awful, is what you're saying?" 

"It's —" And he huffs *again* — "My past." 

"Oh. *Shit*." Porthos *looks* at Athos — 

Athos *coughs* —

He's *red* — 

He's *smiling* — 

And there are tears rolling down his cheeks. 

"— first mistake was trying to milk the *bull*, cher —" 

And they're off again.

This. This is *exactly* as private as it's going to get. 

"Athos... tell me. Just. Get it all out. Get the *poison* —" 

"I told — d'Artagnan convinced me to tell him." 

"Oh. Yeah?" 

"He was right. He was — he *is* — right about everything. He's so brave..." 

"He's bloody wonderful —" 

"I'm in love with him." 

"I know *that* —" 

"You — you do?" 

Porthos looks at him. 

"It's only..." And then Athos blinks, and looks down, and smiles. "It's only that you're a very intuitive man about everyone's relationships but your own." 

Porthos opens his mouth — and closes it. "Yeah, I'll accept that." 

"Good." 

"Did you tell *him* that you —" 

"Not... in so many words..." 

"So, no." 

"No," Athos says, and huffs. "I'll tell him — he was so. I've felt his lips on mine, now, and I don't think I'll be able to go back." 

Porthos grins. "Now that's what we *like*. Are —" 

"Is it?"

"Mm?" 

"Do you... do you *approve* of me taking up with d'Artagnan?" 

Porthos frowns. "'course I do. He loves *you*." 

"And that's... enough?" 

"When you add it to the fact that you love him? *Yes*," Porthos says, slowing down his speech like he's talking to a bloody slow student, just to drive the point home. 

"I only mean —" 

Porthos growls. "I know what you mean. *Something's* got you thinking you're not worth it. That you're not *good* enough. That you shouldn't *be* good enough in *my* eyes, even though you've been my bloody brother for five *years* now." 

And — 

A funny thing happens — or rather, doesn't. 

Athos doesn't flinch for the word 'brother', not right away. He takes a *breath*, like he's taking it in, or something. Like he's really trying to feel it. Like he maybe *hadn't* felt it before — 

"Athos?"

"I had. A brother. A brother by blood." 

Had. 

*Had* —

"Oh... Athos. Shit. What happened. What — what did he do —" 

"Nothing. Or —" He firms his lips into a *hard* line. "I don't know. I never will," he says, and licks his lips. "Not long after the carriage accident that took my parents' lives, a. A woman came. She called herself Anne de Winter. She said she was gentry, and she." Athos hangs his head again, but only for a moment. "She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and I fell in love with her... so quickly. I had never felt..."

He swallows. 

"I recognized when her stories — her *stories* — about who she was and where she'd come from had... holes. Inconsistencies. I ignored those moments. Glossed over them. Helped her — subtly — make her lies more reasonable, for the time when I would present her to society. I knew that day would come. 

"I married her. I. We were. We were so happy. There were... no fights. No... not even as much as *we* fight. I gave her everything. Too much. I think there were times that I bored her..." 

He's silent for long moments — 

And then he growls, deep and low. "There were still no fights when my brother Thomas came back from his extended holiday in Greece. We were in absolute agreement that 'Anne' was everything a woman should be, though she wasn't the sort of woman *he* preferred. He always... 

"If a woman wasn't as *exactingly* intellectual as our parents were — both of our parents, truly — then he had little enough interest in her, no matter how beautiful or accomplished she was in other ways. It was... as the newly-minted Comte de la Fère, I was going to... ease the strictures on him, and allow him to look beyond the gentry for a wife. To look for someone who was, perhaps, a scholar of some sort... 

"Perhaps a former nun..." Athos growls again, shaking his head. "The plans were inchoate. We spent little enough time with each other, *because* Thomas was always more interested in scholarly pursuits, when he wasn't taking up the duties of a courtier I had utterly tossed aside, and which he excelled at with quiet and beautiful grace. He was so... 

"He was a beautiful young man, and I used to *battle* him. I used to —

"I would accuse *him* of being a buggerer, before either of us had any real idea of what that meant. When Treville explained it to me when I was an adolescent casting aspersions on his little brother in a *profoundly* ill-advised attempt to score points with one of the men he admired most in the world... 

"Well, it opened my eyes, to say the least. I spent the rest of our lives together working to make amends. Thomas let me do that. *Helped* me do that. We never quite managed to find *complete* common ground and understanding, though, and he was usually carrying the conversations for me — whatever conversation it happened to be... 

"I was ashamed to show that to 'Anne'. I was ashamed to show her my *failings*. We didn't spend very much time with Thomas. She didn't. She didn't *know* what kind of relationship the two of us truly had. She didn't know what kind of young man he was. She must have thought..." 

"That you hated each other?" And Porthos is starting to get a real sodding *ugly* picture... 

"Yes," Athos says. "Yes, I believe so." 

"Brother..." 

"I came home from hunting one day to find her standing over his body. He was. He was. His eyes were wide and staring — no. He was already dead. There was nothing in them. His hair was soaked with. 

"*She* was *drenched* with his blood. Her face, her hair, her dress, her *shoes*..." 

"Ah, *shit*, Athos —" 

"Even — even her *teeth* when she started speaking —" 

"You don't —" 

"She told me that Thomas had attacked her. That he had... tried to rape her," he says, and stops. And looks at Porthos. 

Porthos swallows his gorge a little. "It — that brought all her lies right back. All her little stories." 

"Yes." 

"That made it — you didn't listen to anything else she said." 

"No." 

"You — did you kill her yourself, brother?" 

Athos's expression crumples. "No. I — couldn't. I couldn't even close my fingers around the hilt of my sword." 

"Oh... brother..." 

"But I could and did lock her away... until she could be hanged." 

Porthos squeezes his eyes *shut* —

(That boy would've been my godson, unless something very — I. I can't —) 

Treville, you *can't* interrupt *now* — 

(I *know* — we're pretending not to pay attention. But Kitos and Reynard and I — please. Laurent is *our* brother, too. Please take care of him.) 

I will. You know I will. 

There's a pause — 

(Yes. I do.) 

Porthos opens his eyes again — and Athos is staring down at the back of his black's neck. "Athos... is there more?" 

He *starts* to shake his head — stops. "I spend... a great deal of time. Questioning myself." 

"Oh... fuck. Because you didn't listen to her?" 

Athos swallows and nods. "I've learned... so much of the ultimately unknowable nature of the human *animal* in the past five years. The fact that I'd never seen anything like that in Thomas, the fact that I know he'd discovered her duplicity..." He licks his lips. "I've told you, we were at odds for most of our *lives* together. What if I didn't know Thomas so well? Or — what if it was a matter of Anne *thinking* that he meant to attack her? A terrible *misunderstanding*?"

"*Athos* —" 

"What if —" 

"*Stop*," Porthos says, using a voice he normally just *wouldn't* — 

Athos grunts — "Porthos —" 

"*Don't*," Porthos says. "Just don't travel that path right now, brother. It's not for you." 

Athos shudders. "Then... who?" 

"Ghosts. Memories. You're a living man." 

"I don't... often feel that way," Athos says quietly. 

Oh, brother... "I know that. But when do you? When does the light shine on you, hey?" 

"d'Artagnan — I. I shouldn't speak of him so incessantly." 

"Yes, you absolutely should." 

"Porthos —" 

"He woke you up inside, eh?" 

"God — he did. He did." 

"He —" 

"The way... the way you've always." And then Athos stops, and swallows, and flushes hard. 

Porthos blinks. "Athos?" 

Athos turns away. 

And that...

It's *incredibly* tempting to bring the conversation back to d'Artagnan, to drag it there and *keep* it there — 

(Porthos, don't —) 

*You* think I shouldn't. 

(Don't — waste time. Or chances.) 

Spoken like a man — 

(Who spent all night wondering how much time your Treville wasted before he took a chance — another chance —) 

Shit — 

(If he ever did.) 

Treville — 

(If he ever got the *chance* to take another — talk to him. Talk to all of them, and, when that doesn't bloody work, slam them against a wall —) 

*Treville* —

(You have to know — I need you to be happy. I need you — we all do, now.) 

What? 

(Porthos...) 

And that was *Reynard's* voice in his head — 

(And mine, lad,) Kitos says, rueful and apologetic — and actually a little quiet, for once. 

Uh... hello? 

(We um. You belong to our Fearless —) 

(Notre *meneur*.) 

(— and that means you're always going to be ours —) 

(Oui, oui —) 

(— and it would mean that even if Amina *wasn't* our friend, too —) 

(Always, she says she's going to poison the food she makes for us, but somehow it always just makes us stronger and healthier and happier —) 

She. Cooks for you?

They stop, for a moment. All of them. 

Just like, maybe, they're remembering — 

(You lost her... very young,) Reynard says. 

(Too young,) Kitos says. (We... we'll tell you everything —) 

(I spent... the most time with her, of all of us,) Treville says. (She eased my heart when I thought I'd never have my brothers the way I wanted to. I eased hers when her suitors and lovers — and she had more than a handful; she's a beautiful woman — proved to be utter tits.) 

(They did that all the bloody time.) 

(Ah, oui, oui. Your Maman, terrible taste in men.) 

(We tried to improve it —) 

(With us —) 

(It didn't work.) 

(Mainly because,) Treville says, (your mother was looking for a husband, and these two arseholes are allergic to the word.) 

You make it sound like you're *not*. 

And there's silence for a moment — 

A *long* silence —

(She turned me down.) 

Uh. Fuck? *Treville* — 

(I love your mother. I love — and I didn't love her the right way. Not for her needs.) 

Did you ask her before or *after* the witches bloody *changed* you — 

(Before. And we can discuss this — all of this — another time. We can all — I *promise* I'll tell you everything, that I *want* to tell you everything. But. All of this...) 

Reynard clears his throat. (Porthos. We *need* you not to make the mistakes we made.) 

(Or the mistakes we're afraid our other selves made,) Kitos says. (You've a mate right there who's inviting you to — to *reach* for him. Inviting you even though it's killing him at least a little to *make* the invitation.) 

(And you want him,) Treville says, and tips up his hat, just a little, at a group of apprentices having breakfast in front of a row of shops. (We know you want to make things right for your other brothers —) 

(And *that's* right,) Kitos says — 

(But don't deny yourself, Porthos,) Treville says, and resettles the hat. (Don't ever do that.) 

(No missed *chances*,) Reynard says, and turns to *look* at him. 

I — got it. 

(Thank you,) Treville says, and gestures the ride-ahead for Reynard and Kitos. They're going to be giving him and Athos even more privacy. 

Athos blinks and *looks* at them — and at Porthos. 

Time to take it. "They've decided we need to talk more." 

"I... yes?" And Athos flicks a glance back and forth between Porthos and Treville several times — "What else were you talking about?" 

"Missed chances. Lost chances. And — my mother." 

Athos inhales deeply — and nods. "I would always. There's nothing I don't want to know about your mother, Porthos." 

Porthos smiles ruefully at him. "Apparently, she had godawful taste in men." 

Athos winces. "I —" 

"Also," Porthos says, and nods toward their guests. "They had dinner with her a lot. Or whatever you call that meal you have when you're drunk and it's the middle of the night." 

"A bad idea?" 

Porthos snickers. 

And Athos grins at him, small and warm. And that — 

"I love being your brother, you know, Athos. I always have." 

Athos parts his lips — "That seems... difficult to credit." 

"To you, I know. Still. You say I woke you up inside sometimes?" 

"*Yes*. You — So *much* —" 

"I say you did the same for me." 

"*How*?" 

"Every time you refused to let me think of myself as being *less*, brother. Every time you refused to let me think of myself as anything but your *equal*." 

"You *are* —"

"Despite *all* the *everything* to the contrary —" 

"It's *dross* —" 

"And so is everything that makes you think you're unworthy of *us*, brother," Porthos says. 

Athos rears back, annoying his black — 

"Steady on, mate, I know what you're thinking. Everything you told me is huge, dark, awful, *world*-shattering. It *is*. But *your* role in it..." Porthos shakes his head. "You did what you could. You did the *best* you could. It's not like you let her get *tortured* for this, did you?" 

"No — no, don't —" 

"Right, so, you let her go as humanely as *possible*, and that was literally the only thing you *could* do. *Maybe* if one of your parents had still been alive. Maybe if Treville had been there to ask for advice. *Maybe* they would've recommended something different. Or? Maybe they would've run her through themselves to spare *both* of you pain —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"*Exactly*. There's no *good* here. There's nothing you can do except live, as best as you can, and — let us help you." 

And there's nothing but day-noise as they ride out of the city and finally pick up some speed — 

As they open up some space between themselves and Paris — 

As Athos takes a shuddering breath — and makes a small and terrible noise. 

"Athos —" 

"I was... waiting. I think." 

"Yeah? For what?" 

"An answer. An. A definitive —" He huffs that not-laugh. "Even if that answer was, ultimately, that I had failed my brother, my love, my parents, and my name. Even then." 

Porthos nods. "That makes sense." 

"Does it?" 

"Yeah, brother. You could've had peace, then, couldn't you?" 

"*Yes* —" 

"Right up until you found the neatest, most unobtrusive way to off yourself —" 

"I —" 

"Leaving us hollowed-out and empty and *aching* for the rest of our bloody *lives*," Porthos says, and *looks* at Athos. 

Athos — winces. The *flinch* is behind his eyes. "I will not deny... having wanted to die." 

"Good. Don't rush it along." 

"I — won't," he says, and sounds bloody *surprised*. 

"Athos?"

"I was expecting a platitude to fall out of my mouth, just then. I." Athos swallows, and flushes hard. "I was expecting to be less of a man." 

"Expect more." 

"Porthos —" 

"Expect bloody *more*, brother!" And now both their horses are annoyed with them, and they're staring more at each other than at the terrain — 

Porthos fixes that — 

A bit — 

A *bit* — 

And Athos is breathing raggedly beside him. "Porthos..." 

"I'm listening, brother." 

"I." 

"I'm *always* listening —" 

"I need you to understand that I love *you*, that I've *always* loved you, that I — I told d'Artagnan last night —" 

"What —" 

"He thought — I accidentally made him believe that my desires for you and Aramis were so great, so all-encompassing, that I had no *room* for him —" 

"Athos —" 

"I thought you and Aramis were punishing me last night —" 

"What are you *talking* —" 

"— showing me what I could no longer *have* —" 

"Athos, *shit* — no, you have to — *no* —" 

"'d'Artagnan explained it to me. I needed to *have* it explained —" Athos growls — 

His black's ears twitch *hard* —

He pauses to soothe her, gentle her with soft words and touches — 

And Porthos gives his Yves the same treatment. 

They breathe. 

They ride. 

They — theoretically — think. 

They — no, wait — "Athos, are you saying that you *want* me — and Aramis —" 

"Yes. But it never —" 

"Right, right, and all those times I tried to —" 

"I was — I was — I couldn't." 

And the part of Porthos which just wants to get belligerent about asking *why* — is an idiot. It's not like Athos had managed to have sex with anyone else these past years. At *all*. 

Porthos would've *known* — 

And, suddenly, he's struck with an image of Athos... trying, with some lady of custom of another. 

Athos trying to keep it simple, easy, anonymous, *blank* — 

"What... are you thinking," Athos says — not asks. He thinks he knows. He — 

"I — fuck, sorry, brother. I was thinking about you with, you know, ladies of custom. Wondering how that went." 

"Ah. I... it didn't *always* end in me being thrown out of the brothel because I was screaming at gore-streaked ghosts." 

"Oh — shit." 

"Sometimes there was just... weeping." 

"You gave up on that... early." 

"Mm." 

"Well," Porthos says, and urges them to ride faster to close a little of the distance between them and their guests, "if you start screaming when *we're* together, I'll just —" 

"When?" 

Porthos looks over and raises his eyebrows teasingly — but Athos doesn't quite look like he can handle a tease right this second. 

He looks like — 

"You're my brother," Porthos says, "and I love you, and I've wanted you forever. The answer is: whenever you're ready, and Aramis is ready, too. And after you talk to d'Artagnan. All right, brother?" 

And *now* Athos looks dazed, and a little wide-eyed with shock — "I... and if it's just... the two of us?" 

"You want that?" 

"I want everything." 

Porthos growls. "So do *I*. And I think the answer to *that* is — whenever there's *time*. *After* we talk about things with Aramis and d'Artagnan." 

"I can't... it doesn't seem real. The *possibilities* don't seem real," Athos says, shaking his head and frowning. 

"It will when we're back with them," Porthos says. "When we're smelling them, touching them —" 

"My fingers miss... d'Artagnan's skin." 

"Yeah, eh? *That's* nothing but real. Focus on it until we get back. We'll work the rest out later." 

"I felt sure you would recommend my touching *your* skin," Athos says, and smiles just a little teasingly. 

Porthos snickers. "Nah, we're going to do this *right* and talk and such." And probably Aramis won't manage to seduce d'Artagnan while we're gone. *Probably*... 

Maybe — 

(You're a sight too responsible,) Treville says. 

How can you still *hear* us? 

(I'm your *dog*.) 

Right. "Anyway, Athos. Don't think I'm not thinking about all your gorgeous calluses all over my bollocks —" 

"Not your cock?" 

"*And* my prick —" 

"Both at once?" 

"Oh, God, stop talking," Porthos says, laughing hard and using his free hand to adjust himself a little. 

"You want —" 

"*Athos*." 

Athos — blushes. "If. If you could..." 

Porthos blinks. "Mm? What is it?" 

"I... could use. Reality. I. d'Artagnan..." And then Athos growls again and turns away, annoying the piss out of his black — 

"Shh, no, Athos, just *tell* me," Porthos says. "What did d'Artagnan say? Or do? Or both. What did he do to make it *right*." 

Athos — shudders. 

His black snorts and tosses her head — 

Athos remembers what he's *supposed* to be doing and calms her, gentles her — 

That's good, that's — 

Porthos rumbles to Yves a little by reflex, even though *he's* fine — 

"d'Artagnan — made everything real." 

"Oh." 

"d'Artagnan — stole all my doubts," he says, still in the gentle voice. "He crushed them. *Systematically* — or, no," he says, and looks to Porthos while stroking his black. "It was as though he could see or *feel* my doubts forming at every turn, and felt *compelled* to destroy them." 

"He's — ah, fuck, Athos. He doesn't have any special powers. He just needed you to *feel* him." 

"Do you... not?" 

Oh. *Oh* — "*Athos* — bloody hell, I need you to feel me all the *time*. I'm just — trying to be a little bit *right* about —" 

"Do you feel... this sort of talk would hurt Aramis?" 

And Porthos thinks of how Aramis had been last night. The boy with no father. The kitten curled with his Master. 

The — 

"I... I think a lot of things hurt Aramis that he never shows, brother. He's a lot like you, in some ways." 

Athos inhales sharply. "Do... do you think *I've* hurt him." 

That... "I think we've all hurt him, at *least* once, and — I think he'll let us know how, slowly, and with care." 

Athos nods slowly. "I... I will try to do the same." 

Porthos smiles. "Yeah, eh? I like *that*." 

"Do you?" 

"Yeah. Especially since I *know* I've hurt you a *lot* of ways over the years, brother. I don't ever want to do any of them again." 

Athos looks at him *hungrily*. "I... I want." 

"You can have it." 

"I'm... thinking about kissing you. I've spent..." 

"A lot of time doing that? Me, too —" 

"I've *spent*, countless times, just thinking of that. Of your lips, on mine. Your teeth. Your tongue." 

"Oh — shit — Athos —" 

"If you were to tell me... one thing. One thing about me that has made you — I could *stop*. I promise I could *stop* —" 

"Your scars, mate." 

"My... which?" 

"You're going to hate this, but —" 

"My mouth. My — *truly*?" 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "You get affectionate when you get a certain kind of drunk, mate. Just a little, sometimes." 

"Oh..." 

"You smile, you huff that little... you kiss my cheeks. Once — *memorably*, even though we were *both* piss-drunk — my lips." 

"Oh — *fuck* —" 

"I felt them. How *hard* they were in contrast to the skin of the rest of your mouth. How sleek. How *different*. I imagined them on my tongue, my nipples, my cock —" 

"I — *I* —" 

"I imagined you *dragging* your lips over my cock, over and over and *over* again —" 

"I'll *do* that —" 

"I spent myself *mindless* —" 

"Porthos —" 

"And then felt *really* guilty —" 

"No —" 

"And then tossed myself off *again* to the same bloody *thing* —" 

"Oh. Right away?" 

"*Right* away, and — uh. A lot. After," Porthos says, and *looks* at Athos. "A *lot*. *Often*. With some variations here and there, but, well. You kept getting drunk." 

"And... affectionate." 

"Yeah. *Sometimes*. And it was always really easy to push that affection *along*, in my mind, after I was alone in my own bed." 

And Athos is silent for long moments — 

Porthos isn't sure if he *wants* to ask if that was enough — 

Porthos isn't sure if he wants that to have *been* enough — 

(You don't.) 

Oh, for fuck's sake. 

(You *need* a dog to keep you honest.) 

I — 

(This... this dog needs you.) 

What? Treville? 

(Nothing for you to concern yourself with —) 

*Treville* — 

(You've grown into a beautiful young man, Porthos. I can't help but wonder...) 

Wonder *what*? 

(Would you be so beautiful if I *had* had a hand in raising you? Should I —) 

Oh — fucking *hell*, Treville — 

(No, not — I'm *going* to make sure you get to safety when we get back to where we belong, you and my Amina, both. But...) 

Don't you take yourself from me, Treville! Don't you sodding do it! 

(You don't —)

Don't you *do* it! 

(You don't *know* me! You know the man I grew into without brothers, without — and I'm going to *fix* that, and then I'll still be... this. Instead of the man *you* love and admire. The man who's worth you.) 

*Treville* — 

(You have to see what I'm saying, don't you? I'm your *dog*. Dogs always want the best for their... Masters.) 

Porthos grunts — 

(Think about it, please. I'll — I'll do what you say. I *have* to. That's how I'm bloody *made* now. But — think about it first.) 

And Porthos can't think of *anything* to say to that — 

Can't —

It's one thing to be the Master of Aramis, who can and will do what he *needs* to do, *always*, even though his first *instinct* will always be to do what *Porthos* wants and needs him to do — but. 

But.

This is the kind of mastery... 

This is the kind of — 

And he's been Treville's Master since he was *born*? How the bloody hell had that *worked*? Obviously there couldn't be mayhem before he could talk — but. 

But Porthos's mother had had to *run* with him before he could talk. There'd never been a *test* of those particular... 

And what would *happen*? 

What if his child self threw a selfish tantrum and ordered Treville to go away and never come back?

There's *ice* in his veins for the thought, for *all* the people who would've suffered if that or something like that had happened. 

His *mother* — 

Reynard and Kitos — 

Sodding France as a *whole* — 

(Oh... Porthos —) 

No — no, don't — 

(I'll be silent.) 

It's just that he can't — 

There's so much of him that relaxes, eases, feels right in every sodding *way* when Treville is talking to him. *This* Treville. It's enough to wind him up in other ways, make him sodding *belligerent*, because it's not right, it's not — 

And because he knows, now, that the other Treville had settled him just this way, made him feel just this right, made him want — 

And. 

He can feel it. 'It'. That *thing* between him and Treville, that *bond* he'd accidentally spread to his brothers, but which can never be as strong as it is between the two of them. 

As pure. 

As *right* — 

It's — 

It feels like the blood in his veins, like *every*-bloody-thing would go wrong — or just *be* wrong — if he were too far apart from Treville — 

And that's the answer. 

That's — 

He doesn't actually *want* to know how much of the *hunger* in him growing up, the need to hustle and move, hustle and *move* and move and *keep* moving, because there was always something wrong with where he *was*, has to do with the fact that he didn't have Treville — 

(*Fuck* —) 

— but there it is. 

There it bloody *is*. 

(And. There's the answer.) 

*Our* answer, Treville. 

(I won't leave. I won't ever —) 

Good. 

(When I find you, when we're back where we belong —) 

You'll do right by both of us?

(I'm your dog!)

And, that time, he'd said it like a declaration of bloody *intent*, and that — 

That's just as it should be. 

(Porthos,) Reynard says, (you have notre meneur growling most fearsomely up here...) 

And *that* was a *pointed* request for an explanation. Treville had been blocking again. 

(That he was,) Kitos says. (I'll pound him for it when it won't annoy the horses. But...?) 

He was talking like maybe I grew up so well *without* him that he should make sure the babe I was twenty-five years ago is safe and then get out of his *life*. 

(Bloody buggering —) 

(*Merde* — *cher* —) 

(I know better now,) Treville says, firm and sure and — utterly like himself. (I won't do *anything* of the kind.) 

(And when you have doubts like this, you will *include* your brothers?) Reynard still sounds like a man-sized rapier. 

Treville's quiet for a moment — 

Another — 

(Bloody *hell*, Fearless —) 

(I... thought —) 

(*What* did you think? Mm? We will give you *everything*, cher! You *are* everything *to* us!) 

And Porthos... can feel Treville's wince. 

And feel him reaching for *him*, too. And that — 

He thought it was my decision, alone. 

(What?) 

(What the sodding — Amina's our friend, *too*, you arse!) 

(But — for Porthos's *life*. His self. His *identity*.) 

The others are silent. 

And, now that Porthos is paying attention... he can feel *them* better. Feel their hurt, their confusion — and their lack of it. 

They're thinking about it, and coming to their own conclusions, and maybe, just maybe, coming to see things the way Treville *had* been seeing them. 

It doesn't work, Porthos says to all of them. I was a bloody mess coming up, and I'm *reasonably* sure that a *lot* of it has to do with the fact that I was *missing* a bloody huge part of my *soul*. 

That pulls them up short, just like it should. 

And Treville feels... wry. (Not to worry, lads. I've seen sense.) 

(You sodding better have!) 

(Ah, oui. We will *not* let our Porthos go without his petit chien.) 

(I'm not that bloody —)

(Yeah, you are. Basset.) 

Treville sighs — and his *rueful* happiness is warmth all through Porthos, warmth that makes him want to curl up somewhere, pet and *be* petted, licked — 

Porthos *blinks* — 

(I — apologize —) 

Do you? And what was — 

(I've been... holding back a great deal —) 

Don't bloody *do* that — 

(If I don't, there'll be more moments like that. More... here,) Treville says, and Porthos feels unsure, cautious, needy — 

He wants to hold — 

He wants to be *closer* — 

He wants to pull his boy *in* with his brothers and their horses, their good, strong horses — 

And his boy's brother, too — 

So strong, so faithful — 

So loving and patient — 

He *needs* Porthos's touch, his affection, his solid warmth and — 

And Porthos pulls back, somehow pulls *back* — 

It *hurts* — 

But it lets him feel like himself again, just himself, just someone who *needs* his dog — 

(I'm right bloody *here*!) 

— and his brother, too. 

(Oh. Well...) 

So I'm allowed to take care of that, am I? 

(There's nothing more important than brotherhood,) Treville says, low and hungry and *forceful* — 

Backed by the weight of *his* brothers' *absolute* agreement — 

Right, then. Porthos turns to Athos. "Treville got a wild hair up his arse about rescuing me — the infant me — and then going far away so he wouldn't be an influence. Since I grew up so great." 

Athos nods thoughtfully. "I can see the temptation." 

"*Brother* —" 

"I presume you dissuaded him?" 

"Yes, I *did*, because —" 

"Because the idea, however tempting, is ultimately wrongheaded for two people bound as tightly as the two of you are." 

Porthos opens his mouth — and closes it and looks at Athos harder. 

"You can communicate with him silently, at a distance, and with great depths of feeling and *understanding*. I... can't imagine you going without it, once you've had it," Athos says, and smiles ruefully. "I can't imagine anyone going without it, but... especially not you." 

Porthos swallows. "You — know me exactly as well as you should." 

"You made that happen. You are honest, and brave, and clear, and —" 

"Athos —" 

"And. I love you," he says, smiling and looking down again. "I'll have to tell d'Artagnan. This gets easier." 

Porthos's heart knocks in his chest. "I love you, too, you know." 

"I know it more and more. Certainly, your continued tolerance of me over the years despite your showing no other signs of enjoying wallowing in pain and misery —" 

"*Athos* —" 

Athos grins at him slyly. "I've made you laugh." 

"*Yes*." 

"I've made you — happy." 

"Yes, you bloody *have* —" 

"I've *done* this on a regular basis, even when Aramis wasn't there to smooth the path for both of us." 

"*Yes*. You're — you're bloody *good* for me. And *to* me." 

"Adding this to my *physical* attractiveness to you... means that I am a worthy lover for you," Athos says, sounding some degree of satisfied — 

And Porthos blinks — "You were still building... reality over there?" 

Athos huffs and smiles ruefully again. "I can't seem to stop. I can't... right now, a part of me is thinking of you and Aramis this morning, perilously close to making love even though you were fully-dressed — he was wearing your scarf as a *collar*." 

"He's my *pet* — among other things." 

Athos pants. "That... is a very large thing." 

"Yeah, it is. Athos, if you're telling me you have a problem —" 

"Of course I don't. I merely... need to know if there is... space." 

And that... makes sense. It's what he's been saying all *along*, really, and — "There is. There's always been room in my heart for you. A *lot* of it." 

"Then... we must simply speak with Aramis. As you already said," Athos says, and smiles again. "I know — believe me that I know that I've become perfectly ridiculous —" 

"Nah, you haven't." 

"No?"

"Not a bit of it. You've always *been* ridiculous. You're just being ridiculous in new and exciting ways now, brother." 

Athos huffs. "Arse." 

Porthos grins. "At your service, as always." 

The rest of the ride is uneventful — and a lot shorter than Porthos was expecting. The de Tréville properties just aren't that *far* from Paris, proper — certainly less far than the de la Fère properties — and... 

On first glance, they look a lot less rich. A lot less capable of supporting a whole lot of retainers — 

The house is a lot *smaller* — though still huge —

And Treville leads them all past it, and past the carriage house to the stables, where their mounts are taken by two overjoyed stableboys — both of colour, both apparently bored to tears before this point. 

Athos calls them both by name — Temitope and Adeyemi — and gives them both small toys that he'd had in his saddlebag — and Porthos remembers that the ties between the de Treville and de la Fere families didn't *stop* when Athos's father had died. 

How does that *work* when Treville has to dress the man down for falling into a bottle every night? 

(Painfully, I'd guess.) . 

Treville stays in the shadows until they're back out onto the grounds, and then he leads them down a meandering path through fields planted with things Porthos can't rightly guess at — but which look familiar from *certain* gardens in the Court you learned to play gently around — to a cottage. 

On the porch is standing a tall, older women of colour in a colourful wrap-dress with a scarf around her hair — and a worried look on her face. 

Treville stops at the foot of the stairs. 

The rest of them stop behind him. 

"Ife," Treville says, "what can you *tell* us?" 

"Nothing easy," she says, and beckons them in.

Inside is a large portion of the good parts of Porthos's childhood. Pretty rugs and scarves. Spices in oil. Animals — familiars — wandering up to give you the once-over and then wandering away to handle their own business again. The *scents*. 

Ife isn't one of the witches Porthos grew up around, but he knows her kind, *feels* her kind, and she — 

And then there's a hard, leathery hand on his face, and Ife is turning Porthos to face her. 

He looks down into her eyes obligingly — 

She looks *hurt* — 

"Ife — may I call you that? — are you all right? Can I do something —" 

"The last time I saw you in person, you were just a babe," she says, and makes a hurt *noise*. 

Porthos winces — 

Treville growls. "Why — why did you let the other Treville —" 

"It." For a moment, she looks even more hurt, and her fingers are *tight* on Porthos's chin. "The older Treville... the older, sadder, *harder* Treville who matched me well enough made the case that, the best way to keep you near — *you*, the *man* who had grown up without us, without anything *resembling* us — would be to pretend —" 

"Why did you *believe* him?" 

"Because I didn't see your eyes for myself, child," she says, and drops her hand, and lowers her *head*. "Because I didn't —" 

She growls — 

Every animal in the place stops and turns and pays *attention*, *including* Treville — 

And when she lifts her head again, there are tears in her eyes. "It was a mistake built on years of emptiness, child. It was... I had lost my sisters Lara and Layo years before, just as Treville had lost his brothers. We had lost the people who could pull us out of our own darkness.

"You all have the opportunity to stop — some of — that darkness from happening. From taking *over*." 

Porthos grunts. "Which parts? Tell me. Please tell me —" 

Ife moves to her kitchen table, where there's a broad, plain ceramic basin filled with water. She taps the edge. "The older Treville taught me the art of scrying, which he, in turn, had been taught as payment for a favour he had done for another mage. Do you all know the term?" 

Porthos and Athos stare blankly at each other. 

Their visitors are doing the same thing — 

And Ife barks a rough laugh. "Scrying is, to put it bluntly, looking where I'm not supposed to. When I felt Treville's energies change so dramatically, when I felt *Porthos's* energies change... I looked. 

"And when I saw the three of *you*," she says, and nods to their visitors, "I used a great deal of strength, and begged the earth for more — which She kindly granted — and then I looked into the past." 

Porthos grunts — 

Treville almost lunges — "Did you see my Amina-love? The babe? What —" 

"I saw *you*, Treville — your older self, that is — doing his best to convince a *very* pregnant Amina to stay put in your manor for the rest of her confinement and some time beyond," she says — 

*Treville* grunts — "Did it — will she —" 

"It looked like you were going to *be* convincing, Treville. And there lies the essential problem," Ife says, and smiles wryly, and with some measure of — pain.

Athos frowns. "What do you mean? Porthos's mother's safety would, I would think, solve many of the problems —" 

"It would *solve* the *problems* that led to the world looking the way it looked before *they*," and Ife points to Treville and the others, "*got* here." 

They stare at her somewhat blankly, but — 

But Porthos is feeling something like an itch, something like — 

"Ife," Kitos says, low and thunderous. "Are you saying it would *change* the — well, of course it would change the world —" 

"Are you saying that it would be *wrong* to change the world?" And Reynard is baring his teeth a little — 

"I am saying that if we do not get you boys home before the world *is* irrevocably changed, you will *not* get home." 

And there's silence for a long moment — 

And then Treville shakes his head. "What do we have to do?" 

Ife spreads her hands. "Go back to where you were, Treville. It was your power the energies of the worlds touched — and responded to — when there was this... hiccough. It is your power alone which *might* — and I make no guarantees — reopen the door." 

"I — and what of the bond between me and my brothers? Will that change things?" 

Ife smiles wryly again. "No. But the bond you have built between yourself and the Aramis boy —" 

Porthos *looks* at Treville — 

"I didn't —" 

"You did, for all that you did not intend to. Your control leaves much to be desired. It is weak, but pulsing, and present, and *alive*. You must take him with you when you go to that burnt-out tavern —" 

"*Shit*," Treville says, and turns to Porthos — "I apologize —" 

"I —" 

"— and, of course, you'll have to bring Porthos." 

Treville growls. "I can't endanger my *boy*!" 

"If we have to go, we have to bloody *go* —" 

"Cher —" 

"I have to *protect* —" 

"Easy, Fearless, *easy*," Kitos says, cupping Treville's shoulders and squeezing — 

"That's *right*," Porthos says. "We —" 

And then Athos clears his bloody throat again. He — 

Porthos stops — 

Kitos and *Reynard* stop — 

And Treville is glaring at Ife, who is just bloody *looking* at him. Which — 

"We'll all go," Athos says — 

"*No* —" 

"*Shut* it," Porthos says, harder than he *wants* to be with Treville, who only bloody wants to take *care* of him — 

Take care of *everyone* Porthos loves — 

But it makes Treville subside, and stop, and look at him, wide-eyed and open and hungry. 

And there's a thought, unbidden, that Porthos doesn't know what to do with — maybe every dog needs their Master to be a little hard sometimes. 

Or a lot. 

It leaves Porthos *staring* at Treville, and Treville staring right back — he'd heard every bit of that — 

He'd *felt* every bit of that — 

But there isn't time to do anything about that. 

And if they do this right, there won't be. 

"We'll all go," Porthos says. 

"Now," Athos says, and then turns back to Ife. "Can you tell us more about what we're doing once we get there?" 

"You — and the d'Artagnan boy — are doing *nothing*, child," Ife says, and looks them all over once before nodding to Treville. "Look to your little jackal, Treville. Hold him tight and call on more power than you ever have. Call on it and *hold* it. And then reach for every part of yourself, everything you hold *dear*. This... this will be the most difficult part of the working, as *most* of what you hold dear is right *here*. But you will think of *your* Amina — not mine — and everything *you* can do for her. 

"You will think of the babe who was *stolen* from you —" 

"My. My son." 

"That's *right*, boy," Ife says, and her eyes are blazing. "More yours than *anyone's* other than Amina's *herself*. You will think of them, and you will go *home* — and you will take your brothers *with* you." 

Treville nods once. "Do *you* know what I can do to save my brothers?" 

Ife smiles ruefully. "You've already done it, Treville." 

"What?" 

"You bound them. You took parts of their souls and you gave them parts of *yours*. You gave them your *power*, Treville. And now? They will be able to fight off many, many more things than they could before." 

Reynard rears back — 

Kitos stills, all over. 

Ife growls another laugh. "The sand is flowing, boys. Go." 

They do just that, and Porthos is absolutely sure that every animal in the place is watching them go.


	10. Ending One, Part One: Whoops.

Aramis is already dressed again, but he pauses before putting his hat back on at that last piece of information. "Binding will strengthen...?" 

"Apparently so," Treville says, and *he* is ready to go, as well, dressed in his old-fashioned leathers again. "I... I should've thought. I wasn't thinking —" 

"You were getting fucked, cher — *while* fucking *me*. I certainly *hope* you were not thinking," Reynard says, adjusting his sword-belt. 

"Witches don't have that *luxury* — *ow* — *Kitos* —" 

"Sorry, Basset, but you know it's dangerous for little dogs to get up to tricks around high horses," Kitos says, and adjusts his hat. "Are we ready?" 

Aramis looks at *his* brothers — 

d'Artagnan is so *close* to Athos — 

And Athos looks very, very pleased about this, in a quiet way. Just as pleased, perhaps, as Aramis is about Porthos's hand on the back of his neck. 

On his collar. 

"We're ready," Athos says, tugging on his riding gloves. "Where precisely is this tavern?" 

Treville rolls his head on his neck — "I can taste the ashes on the back of my tongue. Let's go." 

It takes — too long to get there. Aramis has no eldritch powers that he knows of, despite the apparent bond between him and Treville, but he still believes he can *feel* the agitation of his brothers, the sense that too much time is passing, that events are spiraling out of their control.

That — 

But. 

They get there, and it is and isn't a surprise that the neighbourhood is so empty. There are many things worth scavenging in this wreckage, still — many things Aramis can see on a cursory *glance* — but the area is nearly *empty* of humans. 

And... other creatures? 

Treville has his nose in the air, walking in broadening circles as he looks for something Aramis can't guess at. 

Aramis helps the others tether the horses out of his path — 

"No. Further away than that," he calls without *looking* — 

"Away from the burn area, cher?" 

Treville nods once and keeps sniffing. 

They follow orders. 

When they come back, Treville still has his nose up, but — his right hand is glowing a bright, moonlit blue that's not even a little hard to see, even though it's broad daylight. The hand is closed into a tight fist, and his circles are narrowing — 

Turning into something more like ovals — 

A restless pace —

Back and forth and — 

d'Artagnan frowns and turns to Porthos — "What is he looking for?" 

"I'm pretty sure *he* doesn't know that, lad," Porthos says. "But I'm also pretty sure that he *will* know when he —" 

"Here," Treville says, and stops in an otherwise nondescript pile of rubble. His eyes are glowing now, too. 

"— finds it." Porthos claps d'Artagnan on the shoulder and moves to join Treville. Aramis follows — "What next?" 

Reynard and Kitos flank Treville just that quickly, and Reynard doesn't hesitate to touch the man, to — 

He gasps — 

"Meneur —" 

"This," Treville says, and he's speaking from the back of his throat, gritting his *teeth* —"Touch me. Touch each *other*." 

"I — bloody hell, Fearless, are you sure this is safe for the boys?" 

"No. I'm not. But we *have* to," Treville says, and *grips* Reynard's hand with his free hand — 

"I — I — *cher* — mon *cher* — *Dieu* —" And Reynard throws his head back and goes rigid, gasps, moans — 

And glows. 

Kitos grabs *his* free hand — "*Fuck* — fucking *shit*, Fearless, what are you — doing —" 

"Taking — taking as much power — as I bloody *can*," Treville says, and there's blood running down his bloody *chin* — "*Hurry* —" 

And there is no time. Aramis takes Kitos's hand, shudders and — 

Is he crying out? 

It feels like every hair on his *body* is standing on *end*, like his cock is hardening for — 

For — 

His balls are drawing up — 

Everything he sees is *washed* with that moonlit *blue* — 

Every part of him — 

Every drop of blood in his veins is *alive*!

He has never felt so — 

But could *he* make changes? Enforce his will on the world? 

Could he — 

(*Don't*,) Treville says, and his voice is shuddering, hard, hungry, *bald* — 

Aramis *gasps* — 

Staggers — but Porthos is right there to hold him, to keep him steady, to remind him of who he is, what he is, small, small, he is a pet, he is a pet — 

A boy — 

(You're a bloody *Musketeer*, too, but you have to — you have to just be *still* now, pet,) Porthos says, and he's straining, holding on, keeping him — 

*Keeping* him — 

And Aramis can do that — 

Aramis can feel his love and do anything he says, everything — 

Always, always — 

They are *bound*! 

Tight and strong and forever, forever — 

"*This*," Treville grits, and there's blood leaking from one of his nostrils — 

Oh — 

"*THIS*," he says again, and roars a *hard* growl — 

The energy — the *power* — *whips* through them all — 

They fall to their *knees* — 

They grip each other *tighter*, they have to — have to — 

Aramis is *dimly* aware of d'Artagnan and Athos trying and *failing* to get to them, to reach them — 

Touch — 

Aramis wants to help — 

Brothers should be together — 

(Aramis —) 

And Porthos's voice in his mind is welcome, more power, more *rush* — 

Aramis *reaches* — 

*Grips* — 

And Athos and d'Artagnan are there, right there, on their knees and gasping, yelling, bound — 

BOUND!

Aramis *grins*!

"So be it," Treville says, and something *yanks* on Aramis — 

On everything that makes him who he *is* — 

Something — 

Steals — 

And is gone. 

Gone for — 

Gone *far*, so far, and Aramis is empty, cold, shivering — 

Porthos is *sobbing* — 

Athos is saying "no," over and over and *over* again — 

And d'Artagnan makes a small, small whining noise and claws at the rubble, staring at the space where the others are not. 

Where the others have taken — 

But. 

Their Treville is there, older and dressed in a lace-trimmed shirt and leather trousers. He's down on one knee, and covering much of his face with one *hand*, but it's him — 

It's *him*, and Aramis can *feel* it, feel the *truth* of him — 

As much as he can *see* the moonlit-blue shimmer around him — stronger around his closed left fist as he stands — 

As much as he can feel the essential *lie* of his... appearance. 

It. 

Aramis pulls himself to his feet with Porthos's help — 

Athos and d'Artagnan stagger up, as well — 

"Boys," Treville says. "I — *men*. What did you *do*?" 

"What did *you* —" Porthos growls and shakes his head. "What are *you* doing right this bloody minute?" 

Treville *grunts* — and moves his hand. 

And flares his nostrils. 

And — his eyes shine a bright and *menacing* blue. "You're all bound." 

"*Answer* —" 

"You're all bloody *bound* to a Treville who doesn't *exist* on this *sphere* any longer —" He snarls — 

"What are you *talking* about —" 

"First things first," Treville says, and stands straight. "The reason why you think you're looking at a lie when you're looking at me is because you are. Specifically, a *glamour* meant to hide the fact that I don't *age* as quickly as other men. I can't. There've been too many workings in and *on* me." 

Porthos rears back — 

And Aramis frowns. "Sir. What *do* you look like?" 

Treville grunts. "That's what you care about now, son? I can feel how much you're all *hurting* —" 

"We can't deal with *lies* right now!" And d'Artagnan sounds sick, wounded — 

Aramis moves to touch — 

Tries to. 

He staggers, and Porthos has to grip him tightly — 

*He* staggers — 

"No, I will not allow this to continue," Treville says, and — drops his glamour — 

He looks like a man in his twenties, if not quite so young as the other — 

And then he pulls his belt-knife and slashes his arm. "You're all going to drink my blood. 

"Excuse me?" 

"Yes, Athos, that's exactly what I said, and, since you're closest, open *wide*." 

Athos recoils — 

Treville is, somehow, keeping the bloody slash on his arm from *dripping* — 

"Sir —" 

"You didn't scruple at binding your soul to a mage who clearly didn't know shite about what he was doing," Treville says. "Don't sodding well scruple *now*." 

"But —" 

"*You're* going to bind us?" And d'Artagnan looks confused — 

Feels — 

They *all* feel confused, and it's making Aramis's head spin — more — 

And then Porthos growls and shakes himself. "You're saying you can transfer the bond to yourself this way." 

"It's the *only* way," Treville says. "The other Treville must've used a *phenomenal* amount of power to bind you all, and now... blood is the only power that will break it. Willing, freely-given blood." 

"That sounds as if you will need ours, as well," Athos says, and raises an eyebrow. 

"I *will*, and you're *going* to give it to me, because you all *like* being bloody Musketeers, as opposed to being bloody magical *invalids*." And Treville *looks* at them. 

d'Artagnan narrows his eyes. "Is it *really* the only way?" 

"Exactly what happened that you all don't — no. I know exactly why you don't trust me now," Treville says, and slumps. "I wouldn't trust me, either. But — men. Please. It's the only way. You will not *survive* this. The *only* other option is to bind you to some *other* witch." 

"Fuck, just *give* it to me," Porthos says, and moves to take Treville's arm — 

Treville *grunts* — and he and Porthos lock eyes for a long moment. 

"You owe me, sir." 

Treville shudders. "Yes. I do," he says. "Take this on account." 

And *Porthos* grunts, lowers his head to the wound — 

*Sucks* — 

Shudders — 

And groans, groans and *grips* Treville's arm — 

Slurps and sucks *more* — 

And Treville parts his lips — and then grits his *teeth*. 

Aramis knows — *knows* — that it is not for the pain.


	11. Ending One, Part Two: He's not *not* making love to you...

What is a dog who never feeds his boy? 

What is a dog who goes a quarter of a *century* without feeding his boy? 

Bad. Useless. *Incomplete*. 

*Wrong*. 

Until this moment, of course. 

Until the dog's boy is *taking* from him, lapping and sucking and taking *exactly* what he needs — they both know he can *feel* it!

It's all Treville can do not to *yip* — 

And then not to croon, mournful and low, when Porthos pulls back, panting and shuddering — 

*Hard* —

They can *feel* — 

But there is work to do. The boy needs more from his dog than to simply be fed, and so Treville pushes Porthos's sleeve back — 

Shifts his *teeth* — 

"Fucking *shit*, sir!" 

And he's back to sir in his boy's eyes? 

Does he want that? 

Will that last after — 

This — 

He *bites*, shallowly only, bites just *enough* — 

Porthos stiffens and *grunts* — 

(Sir — fuck, *sir* —) 

And Treville feels himself blushing, feels himself *needing* — 

The taste of his boy is so hot, so iron-metal-*sweet*, the salt is faint and so — 

So — 

He's lapping like like the hound he is, lapping fast, needily — 

He can't *stop* — 

The wounds are already *healed* — 

And Porthos is... hiding him. 

Hiding his loss of control from the others with his tall, broad, perfect *body* — 

(Sir...) 

Treville growls and tries to force himself to stop lapping, tries to — 

He *tries* — 

His boy feels so good tastes so good SOUNDS so good INSIDE him — 

He *laps* — 

And Porthos brings the fingers of his other hand to Treville's face — 

He touches so — 

So *wonderingly* — 

('s all right, sir. You take what you need...) 

I — I — 

(I can feel you —) 

It's been so *long* — 

(And. You were trying to help me, help my mum — )

I had to, I needed to, I saw where I was — *when* I was — and I knew what I could do, what I could *fix*. I killed your father — 

(*Shit* —) 

He's *worthless*. If — if the witches told you *anything*, they *must* have told you — 

(They did! But — *shit* —) 

I had to be *sure*, Treville says, turning Porthos's arm and licking his wrist, so sweaty, so soft, so — 

(But — what about your brothers? You said you were on a *different* sphere. They must've been there. You could've tried to save them, too!) 

And Treville realizes how much his boy doesn't understand — 

How much *all* of them still don't understand — 

He's a good dog, a good — 

He can remember what he was bloody *doing* — 

He tears himself *back* — 

"*Sir* —" 

"Wait — one moment," Treville says, and uses the jackal to call on his focus, his power — 

There's so much of it still thrumming *through* this place — 

His for the *asking* — 

And it's easy enough to check, to touch his Porthos's head, heart, and cock through his clothes — 

"What — what are you —" 

"You're safe now. I should be able to do this for all of you," Treville says. "And then I can —" 

"Will you also begin to make love with all of us?" And Aramis's eyes are hot, burning — he's worried. 

Treville shudders. "I need to heal you all, and then I need to explain what just happened — what you all just *did*," he says, and then turns specifically to Aramis. "I promise to do better at keeping my control." 

Aramis narrows his eyes — 

d'Artagnan looks *just* as belligerent — 

And Athos raises that damned eyebrow. Fine. 

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose. "All right. What do you need to know? What — you all know about the bond between me and Porthos at this point, I would think?" And he drops his hand and looks them all over. 

"The *bond* was between Porthos and *another* Treville. *Sir*," Aramis says. 

"I — that —" 

"And then you very clearly took it and made it your own," *Athos* says. 

"All right, look, I appreciate the protectiveness," Porthos says, stepping between Treville and the others, "but it's really not —" 

"*Porthos*, you're *compromised*!" And d'Artagnan is fumbling for his pistol with his shaking *hand*. 

"I'm bloody *what*? And *stop* that; you're going to sodding *kill* yourself —" 

"You let him *at* you like some —" And Athos curls his lip. "How do we even know he's the same Treville we had before all of this *happened*?" 

"Bloody *hell*, Athos, I know he's the same because I can *feel* him —" 

"He *made* you —" 

"And because I can hear every single thought in his *head*. Even the ones he doesn't want me to. This — this thing he did goes both *ways*, you arseholes! Before, he could hold *back*. For twenty-five *fucking* years — and he owes me *big* for that, and he *knows* it, and that's *part* of why he lost control. But he can't hold back anymore. He *can't*. Not with me. And, if you *let* him bloody *help* you — the way only he *can* —" 

"He will not be able to hold back with us...?" And Aramis lifts his chin. There is... a bruised look in his eyes. 

He doesn't like his Porthos, his *Master* — and when had that *happened*? — being so...

Treville takes what is absolutely *not* a subtle step away from Porthos, but — 

"Where the hell are *you* going?" 

"I —" 

"He is showing tact, my Master," Aramis says, making — a stand. 

It pulls *Porthos* up *short*. He takes a breath — and nods, moving close to Aramis and cupping his face. "Pet.. you're mine and I'm yours. Nothing has changed about that. Nothing *will* change about that." 

"You *instinctively* moved to *hide* him when he began making love to you —" 

"Because he couldn't *control* himself and I didn't —" 

"You wanted to protect him, from us. From *me*," Aramis says, and — he has a point. 

"Pet —" 

"Don't protect me any longer. It's not your job," Treville says, and resists the urge to *touch* — 

The urge to *comfort* *that* way — 

He knows Porthos can *feel* — 

"Is it your job to protect *him*, Treville?" 

"He's my boy. It's my job to do everything for him. Everything in my *power* — and beyond, every time I can manage it." 

"Everything except tell him the *truth*?" And d'Artagnan's hand is still shaking by his pistol — 

"I made... a terrible mistake. And I will never be able to wholly make amends for it," Treville says. "And all of you must — *must* — consider the fact that you are spiritually bound to a Treville who no longer exists *on this sphere* — a Treville who had *no* control over his powers and bound you by *accident* — when you are taking into account all the reasons why you don't wish to trust *me*." 

Aramis blinks. 

d'Artagnan glares. 

Athos lifts his chin. "How do you know we didn't choose to be bound." 

"Because you're a bunch of contrary *arseholes* who don't trust authority figures when they *aren't* twenty-three-year-old *pillocks*."

"To be fair, sir," Porthos says, "he wasn't *much* of a pillock when you got to know him." 

Treville looks at Porthos. 

"Well, he *wasn't*. He just wanted to take care of me — and absolutely everyone on this bloody planet I've ever so much as had a kind thought about." 

"And drink?" 

"Yeah —" 

"And whore?" 

"Well — yeah — " 

"And whore with young boys?" 

"I. We didn't get — that — far —" 

"But it's not a shock, is it." 

"No —" 

"And he also wanted to butt into every aspect of your life and make rude, editorial commentary?" 

"Well — that, too, yeah — "

"And fuck your pet?" 

"Uh." 

Treville raises an eyebrow.

"Uh... yeah, actually..." 

"*Porthos*!" 

"Look, I know I forgot to mention that part —" 

"Porthos. My Master. I am growing increasingly incensed with you," Aramis says, in the same tone he uses when he's quietly promising to eviscerate someone and roast their organs over open flame while they watch — in languages he *believes* no one around him speaks. 

Porthos winces like the intelligent man he is. "I apologize. There wasn't *time* —" 

"When were you *going* to mention —" 

"Before! Long! Before. Anything happened. Of any kind! With him," Porthos says, and raises his hands. 

"You *planned* for something to happen —" 

"As an aside," Treville says, and stops. 

Everyone looks at him, which strongly suggests that all hope is not yet lost. 

"As an *aside*," Treville says, and looks to each of them in turn. "I would like to assure you all that, while I am an arsehole, and a bastard, and, of course, a *dog*, I have *mostly* grown out of being a pillock." 

They keep looking at him. 

They — 

"Yeah, sir, but do *you* want to fuck my pet?" 

Shit. 

"Oh, sir. Well. Can't really blame you there."

Treville covers his face with both hands. "Would you all *please* at *least* let me get you into condition —" Well, that was ridiculously muffled. "Let me *help* you, you arseholes!" 

"Explain more to us first, if you please," Athos says, and attempts to stand in his usual casually arrogant hipshot pose. 

He nearly falls over. 

d'Artagnan catches him — 

They *both* stagger — 

Porthos sets them to rights. 

Treville sighs. "Did you have anywhere in *particular* that you wanted me to start?" 

"*Why* aren't you and the younger Treville the same person anymore?" And d'Artagnan dusts himself off a bit. "You *were* the same, weren't you?" 

"I can't answer that with any true degree of certainty, son," Treville says. "What I *can* tell you with *absolute* certainty, is that, even if we were the same, and came from the same place, and had lived the same life — that changed as soon the... swap, for lack of a better term, happened. Because *he* immediately started mucking about with what was and wasn't known *when* — and so did Reynard and Kitos — and because *I* did the same. It all went to Hell — for certain *values* of the term — when *he* learned Amina's and Porthos's fates and vowed to move Heaven and earth to change them, and when *I* realized that I was perfectly positioned to do just that, while also making a few other little changes, too." 

Aramis frowns. "Are you speaking of damnation? Has working against God's plan imperiled your soul in some —" 

Treville can't keep himself from coughing a laugh —"I — I apologize for that, son. This has *nothing* to do with *any* god's plan. This is... something rather larger than that, and infinitely more dangerous." 

Aramis rears back — and Porthos catches him before he can fall. 

"I apologize for that, as well. I've never wanted to interfere with your faith. But — I must, to a certain extent, in order to answer this question," he says, and raises both eyebrows in question. 

Aramis licks his lips, but — "Do not stop!"

"As you say, son. There is — a music, of and through the spheres. *Something* happened which jangled the chords the other night, and caused the swap and who knows how many other things in who knows how many other places. Other *spheres*. 

"I was taught — by *many* people far, far wiser than I have ever been — that when things like that happen, the best thing to do is to work *around* them, and *with* them, and not do anything to make them worse — even if it seems like you're righting wrongs. Even if it seems like what you're doing is the most beneficial thing in all the worlds. The music must be allowed to continue without our meddling, because our meddling can cause... well, all sorts of troublesome things — mostly for the meddlers. 

"Some *do* call this the wrath of one god or another, but... well. It seems most correct to me to think of it as the instrument tuning itself, or being tuned by a hand greater than any god's we've ever been able to dream up. What this has to do with me and, well, *me*, is that, as soon as we began meddling, we stopped being able to be one person — assuming, again, that we ever were. 

"We stopped being able to exist on one sphere, because the changes we were making — even the other Treville, who couldn't *yet* make those changes, but had simply promised himself to with every fibre of his being — were like ripples on a vast lake. We each threw in our handful of stones, but those ripples expanded out and out and out, touching countless lives, and they touched countless more lives, and *they* touched countless *more* lives, and on, and on, until —" 

"The entire sphere was altered," Aramis says in a hushed tone. 

"Exactly so," Treville says — 

"But wait," Porthos says, "You were *meddling*, and you were *fixing* things — everything I remember is the bloody same!" 

Treville nods, and smiles with pain. "I was told, more than once, that I couldn't change my own world, as opposed to creating a new one — which I would then almost certainly have to live in. I... was well enough with the idea of living in a world where I could have my Amina-love, and raise Porthos as my own." 

Porthos grunts for that — 

Athos nods slowly — 

"What about your brothers? They — were they there?" And d'Artagnan is still frowning, but not *as* belligerently. He's allowed to count that as progress. 

Treville gestures a folding-over. "The sphere had healed over their absence. Over the course of a conversation with Amina, I watched her go from haranguing me for not *fighting* for them as hard as I could — as if there was anything I could do in the first place — to having not a single blessed clue who either of them were. Laurent... I didn't see him before the healing happened. He had never known them, at all, and so his relationship with me was... different..." 

("A hug, brother? Have we become so formal?" 

"Laurent —") 

And Laurent had laughed, easy and sweet — 

Kissed him *through* his own laughter — 

Kissed him so — 

So simply, so easily, so *wetly* and *hungrily* — 

("You must forgive me, brother. You never give me enough *opportunities* to tease *you* for that. But come, tell me what's the matter? Your countenance is dark, and you seem to have aged years overnight!") 

And Treville hears Porthos — gasp. 

Treville squeezes his eyes shut — 

"I feel certain that I'm not going to want the answer to this question," Athos says, "But what, exactly, does 'different' mean in this context?" 

("We — we were never lovers?"

"No." 

"But... why not?")

And what answer could he give to that? 

What possible — 

Kitos, Reynard — he'd given both of them chances to *refuse* him. 

Laurent... he'd just taken the man's endless *questions* about Treville's predilections as proof of distaste, as opposed to proof of *interest*, and — 

And. He looks at Athos. "I think you can guess, son." 

Athos blinks rapidly. "With — my. I. What of my *mother*?" 

("Perhaps... you understand, I cannot truly *imagine* this, but did Marie-Angelique wish me to be more faithful to her? Or did she not wish you to share our —" 

"I... never asked."

"Oh. Did you... did you not desire —" 

"Oh, God, Laurent, that was never — I've wanted you since I was *fourteen* —" 

"That's what you've always *said*, and you — you *reached* for me, you were so young, and I tried to dissuade you — but —" 

"I didn't reach. I didn't — I never imagined that you could desire... there are times when I am a coward." 

"That is, frankly, more impossible to fathom than any other part of this." 

"Oh, Laurent...") 

"As an *aside*, sir, that blush is horrifying," Porthos says.

"I imagine so," Treville says, and turns back to Athos. "I was, I believe — I can't be *certain* — living the life of another Treville *entirely* when I was meddling. A Treville with less raw *power* than I have. I... could have stolen his life, and sent him... I don't know where. Perhaps we would have become one, with time. I say this because — ah, hell, Athos. Consider retracting your last question."

Athos raises his eyebrows high. 

"Well, he can't bloody do that *now*," d'Artagnan says. 

"He can! He really can!" And Porthos is making any number of gestures for *peace* — 

He's looking *in* on Treville's thoughts again — 

"Oh, no, my Master," Aramis says, and smiles like a bloody *wolf*. "I believe our Treville must share these thoughts." 

"Oh, for fuck's sake, pet —" 

"Don't protect me," Athos says, to — all of them, really. "What *is* it about my mother?" 

Treville sighs. "On that sphere, Olivier d'Athos was, in fact, the blood-child of Laurent d'Achille — but the fact that he *wasn't* the child of that Treville... was pure, blind luck." 

Athos blinks more — 

Swallows — 

"How. How do you know..." 

"I can smell that sort of thing, son — *Athos*. And I'd told Laurent, at some point, and he — cheerfully — told me, when I asked him to explain what our relationship actually *was*." 

"And... Thomas?" 

"Your mother wasn't pregnant with him, yet." 

"But — she should've —" 

"There were... many differences, large and small. Bissette hadn't been Captain before your father; Durant had. Amina only had two witch-mothers, not three. Laurent had a terrible scar from his right jaw to his ear — the lobe was gone, and his smiles were crooked. Buildings were in the wrong places, or missing altogether. Whole neighbourhoods had their character utterly changed..." Treville shakes his head. "Even some of the accents were different. I spent the entire time this close to pissing my breeches and stabbing something to feel better."

"Well, you can piss on d'Artagnan if you think it'll help, sir —" 

"Oh, sod *off* —" 

"— but we'd all prefer you not stab him." 

Aramis is trying *very* hard not to smile for that. 

Athos... is blushing. 

Well, then. Treville plants his hands on his hips. "Have you *all* taken up the most disgusting and horrible sorts of buggery in my absence?" 

"It seemed only right," Aramis says, and smiles *meanly*. "Four men's disgusting and horrible buggery being about your capacity for a given night, after all... sir." 

So he's forgiven, then. Provisionally. "Well, on a slow night. May I *please*. Heal. You. All." 

"Will you be able to hear our thoughts," Athos says — not asks. 

"If I listen, which I will only do when I *must*." 

Aramis opens his mouth — 

"'Must', in this case, does *not* include the needs of my horrifically overactive libido when it comes to the four of you." 

d'Artagnan makes a sound like he's choking on a particularly *thick* cock — 

"Yes, all of you, son," Treville says, and doesn't roll his eyes, because he hasn't earned the right to that, this time — 

(Too bloody right, sir. Also —) "You know. I just — the other Treville was in my head all the *time*," Porthos says. "Even when *he* was having sex." 

Treville raises an eyebrow. "And he wasn't just inviting you to join?" 

"Well, sometimes that, but —" 

"*Porthos*!" 

"It was more like just *sharing* —" 

"That is not better!" 

Porthos winces — "I'm sorry? I'm sorry! Sir, tell Aramis you won't do that." (PLEASE.) 

"I won't do that." 

"Without my *permission*?" 

Oh, yes...?

(Shit, sir, *down*.) 

"Definitely not without your permission, son," Treville says, in his best 'I pinned my cock back years ago and I've since lost the pry-bar' voice. 

Porthos stares at him. "I used to really *trust* that voice!" 

"It's designed to be very soothing, son," he says, still in the voice. 

"What? What is it about that voice?" And d'Artagnan is looking back and forth between them — 

"It's all bloody fake! He's not all solid and trustworthy at all when he sounds like that!" 

"Hm. What *is* he, then?" And Athos raises an eyebrow.

"*Dirty*! Really sodding *dirty*!" 

"I'll tell you a secret, son," Treville says, and turns to Porthos. I never, ever, drag myself out of the filth. Ever. And then he winks. 

Porthos splutters — 

"Oh, *come* on," d'Artagnan says — 

"I believe I can guess *that* secret," Aramis says, and crosses his arms over his chest — the left one falls immediately, knocking him off-balance — 

Treville catches him. "Enough of this. Let me." 

"I will," Aramis says, and looks deep into his eyes. "But answer one more question for me, please, sir." 

"All *right* —" 

"There are other witches who could — and would — do this, are there not?" 

"I can think of one," Treville says. "He could be here in seconds, at my call. But then you'd all be at the beck and call of an immortal British blood mage who, while a friend of mine, is not above using people as he sees fit, when he sees fit, in every possible *way* he sees fit — no matter how those people feel about it." 

"Uh." Porthos frowns. "Why the bloody hell is he your friend, then?" 

"Because he is always, always working for the greater good, and his honour and mine have more than a little bit in common. And he's a fine conversationalist, too." 

Porthos *snorts*. "Right —" 

"Do you *want* me to call him? He, at least, is someone the four of you would not have to look at every day. The illusion of privacy might prove comforting." 

"But it would still be an illusion," Athos says. 

"That it would, son. The four of you lost all chance to true privacy when you let the other Treville bind you." 

Aramis winces and nods — 

The others just nod. 

And then Aramis stands straight and cups Treville's bleeding arm. Keeping the blood from flowing requires a steady amount of power, but this place is still *singing* with it. "Please — please feed me," he says. 

"Take," Treville says, and lifts his arm to Aramis's mouth. 

Aramis sips cautiously, at first, but he's too corrupted by the binding on his soul not to *taste* the power in Treville's blood — and thrill to it. He drinks deep. 

(That is the hottest bloody — literally bloody —) 

Agreed. 

(Fuck. I'm going to have to confess this, but I *do* want to share him with you, sir.) 

Porthos, what do you have against these breeches?

(If you make me laugh out loud —) 

You'll have to confess faster and be a better man? 

(You're an *arsehole*.) 

That I am, son, Treville says and eases Aramis away from the wound — 

Does *not* lunge to *take* his mouth — 

He's so dazed and *beautiful* — 

(*Yeah*, he is —) 

Did he look like this when you fucked him, son?

(Fuck — yeah. Yeah. More — you know. Flushed. Shiny with sweat.) 

Thank you for that. I will... be using that far too much, Treville says, smiling and shifting his teeth — 

Shifting them back — 

"Are you ready for me to bite you, son?" 

"I — I... your taste is in my *mouth*." 

Porthos grunts — 

"It should not — why does it feel so *intimate*?" 

Treville grins. "It *is* my blood, son —" 

"You know what I — I —" And Aramis growls, flushes — 

Porthos kisses him *hard* — 

Porthos makes love to his mouth — 

*Tastes* him —

And Treville realizes, with a jolt to the *cock*, that Aramis is thinking of his spend, that they're *both* thinking of his spend, of *sharing* — 

And he's growling — 

Fighting back his shift the way he hasn't *had* to fight in *decades* — 

Porthos pulls *back* — 

"Porthos —" 

"Tell him, pet, tell him what you're *thinking*." 

And Aramis turns to Porthos with a plea in his eyes, a question, a *need* —

Porthos *nods* — 

And Aramis turns to back to *him*. "Are you making love to me *now*, sir." 

"I'm trying very hard *not* to, son." 

Aramis lifts his chin. "Do *not* try." 

And — 

It's too easy to lunge — 

It's too easy to — 

Aramis is drunk on Treville's *power* — 

He isn't *thinking* straight — 

He gasps so *sweetly* when Treville bites his forearm, he presses it to Treville's mouth, moans, *urges* — 

His blood is *fire* — 

His blood is — 

Oh, but the other Treville had done this too *well*, bound them too *tightly*. Porthos was always going to drive him mad — Porthos is his! — but Aramis? 

To feel so much, taste so much — 

Like blood. 

Like kin. 

(I no no I —) 

Shh. Shh... 

(no) 

Shh... there's nothing to fear... 

(you will see you can't see I can't show Porthos has to see) 

He's right here. Aren't you, son. 

(Yeah — what is it, pet? What do you need?) 

And then — there is the *softest* of mews... 

Treville is lapping like a *hound* again — except that the Treville who lives in the souls of the three of them is making a *hard*, sweet love to a small and gorgeous young boy — 

Aramis.

*Aramis* — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

And Porthos is there, *sharing* the boy-Aramis with Treville — 

Working the boy between them and — 

Ah, *fuck* — 

(Oh, precious baby...) 

(I am still precious? I am still your baby?) 

(*Always*.) And Porthos kisses Aramis again, cups his face with both hands and forces him down, forces him *small* — 

(Oh yes yes yes —) 

(Just take it, precious...) 

(Mm! But — but we need *Daddy*, Papa —) 

(Oh — shit —) 

Treville grunts and pulls *back* — 

Aramis *reaches* for him — 

"What — what did you *do* to him?" And d'Artagnan is back to looking belligerent — but Athos stops him from advancing and, chances are, falling on his arse. 

"He's — drunk. On my blood," Treville says — 

Porthos pulls out of the kiss. "He's a lot bloody more than *that*," he says, and kisses Aramis again — 

Again — 

"C'mon, precious, come out of it a bit. It's not quite time for you to be my little baby..." 

d'Artagnan's eyes widen — but then he blushes. He knows about this. 

Treville looks to Athos — but *he* is blinking rapidly with a look of honest *shock* on his face. 

"Don't keep so many secrets from each other, boys," Treville says. "Please — don't make my mistakes —" 

"I need..." But Aramis's voice is small, quiet — 

He doesn't *finish* — 

He doesn't have to. Treville is an arsehole, but he isn't a fool. He looks to Porthos — 

Porthos nods once, sure and open and so — 

(He's not the only one who *needs* you, sir.) 

Treville licks his lips — and takes Aramis's hand, twining their fingers together and leaning in close. "I'm here, son." 

Aramis presses close to Porthos and smiles. "Yes, Daddy?" 

Treville sighs, and — gives in, nuzzling at Aramis's mouth — 

"Oh — *fuck*," d'Artagnan says — 

"Perhaps — perhaps we shouldn't —" 

"Don't go anywhere," Treville says. "Presumably neither of you have been harboring secret fantasies about me for years —" 

"Glrk —" 

"I." 

"— *therefore*, this shouldn't be an *issue*," Treville says *firmly* — 

Oh, he can lie with the best of them — 

(You're a bastard, sir.) 

That one was necessary — 

(I know,) Porthos says. (*Still*. I hope you're enjoying the end of your *lying* bastard years.) 

Do you plan to — 

(Call you on every last one of your little stories? You're goddamned right, I do. Now, kiss my *boy*.) 

He does — 

Aramis giggles and Treville kisses him *again* — 

Aramis *croons* and Treville shoves a hand in his hair and grips, kisses hard, *takes* his mouth — 

(Oh, Daddy!) 

I can feel that you thought you couldn't be this for me...

(I had to be big! Big all the time!) 

That was never true, little one... 

(Oh —)

I promise to teach you, Treville says, and *fucks* Aramis's mouth, fucks it slow, hard, *wet* — 

Aramis moans and *gives* himself to him — 

Porthos is stroking Aramis — 

His sides — 

His long, strong arms — 

Porthos *squeezes* Aramis's arms — 

And Aramis goes loose, gives himself *up* even more — 

So *beautiful*, and Treville can ease the kiss slowly, slowly, *appreciatively* — 

Treville can pull *back* with more kisses — 

A bite for that long throat — above the collar — 

Another for below — 

And then a touch for his forehead, his chest, his — *hard* — cock — he's well. He's — 

"You're perfect, son." 

Aramis beams. "Thank you, Daddy!" 

d'Artagnan whimpers — 

Athos's heart is beating faster — 

And Porthos is growling, just a little, under his breath. 

It makes the dog in Treville want to sit up and *beg* — 

(For what, sir?) 

You. All of you. 

Porthos looks at him for a long moment — and then nods. (You have to know I'm begging, too. At this point.) 

It's still good to hear, son. 

And Porthos pinkens up, just like that — and turns to growl in Aramis's blushing ear. "Are you good, precious baby?" 

"Mm! I am well, Papa! You and my Daddy took care of me, just like always!" 

Treville blinks — 

And Porthos grins. "Baby has a long, beautiful history with — us, Daddy." 

Treville *grunts*. "In his... memories." 

"That's right. In his memories." 

Treville licks his lips and looks to Aramis. "You'll tell us all about those memories, won't you, little one. Help us see them through *your* eyes." 

"*Yes*, Daddy!" 

Treville squeezes Aramis's hand and cups his face with his other hand. "Good boy. Mind your Papa now." 

"I can't believe —" 

"d'Artagnan, *don't*," Athos says, sharp and clipped with the *full* weight of his natural command — 

But Aramis is smiling as Porthos growls and bites his throat — 

"Yes, Papa, yes —" 

Aramis is turning to kiss Porthos over his shoulder — 

*Both* Treville and Porthos are cupping Aramis's face — and Porthos says, very quietly and firmly, "Come back to us now, Aramis. Come back to your years." 

"Oh — yes —" 

"Come back for me. For *us*." 

"For... my Daddy, too?" 

"That's right. And your brothers." 

"My brothers need me?" 

"Mm-hm. Come back to us. And then, later, you can be our precious baby again." 

"You promise this thing?" 

"Always, precious. *Always*." 

And Treville strokes Aramis's cheek. "Always." 

And Aramis shivers — 

Closes his eyes — 

His eyes track *rapidly* behind the lids — 

And then his smile... changes. 

*Ages*. 

And, when he opens his eyes, he's no one but the dangerous, filthy-minded, *bloody*-minded, half-mad ex-seminarian Treville had spent approximately two minutes debating with himself over whether he belonged in the regiment before spending the next twenty minutes of the initial interview fantasizing about all the mayhem his new recruit *would* cause, if Treville had to move the spheres to see it happen. 

Aramis blinks — "Sir — I was — I was not — I was well-*behaved* in my initial interview!" 

"You were *pretending* to be well-behaved to someone who'd spent all the *important* moments of his life either doing the same thing or *with* people doing the same thing. Or *both*. *Better* than you." 

"I am offended!" 

"What you are is not often inclined to perform your best for audiences who haven't — yet — proven their worth to you," Treville says, and strokes down to Aramis's beard, neatening it a little. "Now are you." 

"I... hm. Yes, sir," he says, and smiles wryly. 

"Good boy," Treville says, and steps back, turning to Athos and d'Artagnan — "I was reminiscing about Aramis's and my first meeting and how, like all of you, he lit a fire within me to make him *mine*." Treville smiles ruefully. "As much mine as I thought I could have." 

Athos raises an eyebrow. "You first met me when I was in swaddling." 

"I first met *Olivier* when he was in swaddling, son. I think you'd agree that I first met *Athos* rather later than that." 

Athos inhales sharply. "When... would *you* say that you did?" 

"I saw the sparks of him when you came to me for your three seasons of training when you were just turning seventeen. A tease for both of us, mm?" 

"Sir —" 

"Don't mind me, son. But we both knew you *wanted* those three seasons to be much, much more. Laurent told me you had offered to forgo your extended holiday to mark your manhood for the chance to train with my Musketeers. He told me that you *begged* for it, in a way that you had simply never begged for anything *else* —" 

"There was nothing else I *wanted*. I —" And Athos stops himself with a growl. 

Treville nods. "I saw that on you as soon as you arrived in your shining new leathers with your beautifully *used* weapons. I saw that *desire*. That... fire." 

"You... you hardly spoke to me —" 

"I was controlling myself, son," Treville says, and moves close to Athos, tracing his brassard. "I would've done everything I could to make you one of us. To *take* the fire in you and *join* it to the fire in *me*... and make you rebel against your father's wishes. My *brother's* wishes." 

Athos swallows. "You. Loved my father." 

"I did. I still do. I always will." 

"It wasn't — it wasn't a *dalliance*." 

"With *Laurent*? Oh, Athos. He would never have *allowed* such a thing..." Treville shakes his head. "I'm convinced, now, that one of the largest reasons why I never had the chance to make love with my own Laurent — with *your* father — is because I never managed to *show* him how deeply I was in love with him. As opposed to how deeply I loved Reynard and Kitos." 

Athos licks his lips. "It. You were certainly clear about that." 

Treville smiles wryly. "They demanded that of me. And *that*, I'd wager, was one of the reasons why it was so deeply surprising to the other Treville that they could ever *doubt* his love for them. His deep, *abiding* love for them." 

"You're taking our memories of the time you were absent." 

"Yes," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. "To be more specific, I'm taking Porthos's *extremely* completist account of events, which I'm not certain he can help giving to me." 

"Oh — shit —" 

Treville grins at his boy. "Not to worry, son. It's been helpful." 

"But — isn't it *confusing*?" 

"You're half-consciously... filling in blank spaces. Not quite butting in, but sharing. It's quite deft, actually."

Porthos blinks — 

And Aramis rubs his chest. "My Master knows well how to bring his loves together." 

Porthos colours for that — and growls as he squeezes Aramis closer. 

Something is going to have to be done to tone the two of them down a *little* — the collar, for one, will be a problem for their more official duties — but... 

But. 

Wouldn't he have loved to be just that way with Reynard — assuming Reynard would have allowed it? 

Wouldn't he have knelt beside Laurent's desk for *hours*?

Kitos was never that formal, never that *attracted* to labels and names, but... 

But he'd owned a part of Treville just the same. 

Body and soul. 

(I hear you, sir.) 

(Yes, Daddy...) 

Treville blinks — but when he looks up, Aramis's eyes are still sharp, still a little narrow, still *adult*. 

(Perhaps you will be my Daddy —) 

Treville *growls* — "Always. All the bloody time. Let me have you." 

Porthos blinks. "Pet...?" 

*Aramis* blinks — at least a part of him had meant that as a sally, a *tease*, but — "I... am always. I am always a little weak for a good Daddy," he says, and tries a shrug. 

"You're never *weak*," Treville says, and walks over, grips his chin, lowers his *head* — "You're never. *Weak*." 

"Daddy —" 

"Say it." 

"I am never weak. But —" 

"*But*. Sometimes you're in need. Mm?" 

Aramis *pants*. "Too — too much —" 

"You can't help reaching out for *what* you need then. Can you." 

"I — I'm —" 

"Don't apologize, son. Just answer." 

Aramis grunts, eyes wide — 

Porthos is holding *both* of them *inside* — 

Such a warm and loving — 

And Treville growls more. "Aramis. Yes or no." 

"Yes, sir —" 

"Is that what you want to call me?" 

"N-no. Daddy. *Daddy*." 

"Good boy. Good *son* –"

"*Fuck* —" 

"We get what we *want* when we reach for things, son. We get what we *need* when we do. When we *don't* reach for things? We don't bloody get them. I didn't learn that lesson for far too long. *You* are wiser than I am." 

"Daddy?" 

"Call me that whenever you wish — and it won't get us summarily hanged," Treville says, and grins. "Call me that whenever you *need*. You can feel that your Papa welcomes it, can't you?" 

"Yes — yes, and I can't *understand* —" 

"My pet has to have *everything* he needs. My boy has to have everything he needs. My *love* has to have everything he needs. And when all of those people need something that makes perfect bloody sense to me?" Porthos growls and kisses Aramis's forehead. "You're mine. 'm always going to take care of you." 

Aramis pants — 

And *pants* — 

And turns to kiss Treville's fingers. "Yes, Papa. Yes, Daddy. I. Would like to be quiet now. For a time." 

He needs to think. 

He — 

And Treville has his other boys to care for. 

Aramis laughs inside their minds as he tucks his face against Porthos's throat. (My Daddy is a passionate, *hungry* man.) 

Always.


	12. Ending One, Part Three: An end to doubt.

Athos watches Treville put Aramis on his *knees* — metaphorically, but still — in seeming *moments*, and he can't help but wonder if that's what's in store for all of them. 

Porthos was ready to follow orders — *all* orders — in bare moments. 

Porthos needed barely any *convincing* before he was drinking the man's *blood*, and that — 

It can't be wrong to be hesitant about this. 

It can't be wrong to have preferred the cleaner... *reach* of the other Treville's bond. There had been nothing but Athos's growing respect and care for the man — and of course his growing worry — and then there'd been power, and understanding — 

Infinite *understanding*, and Athos had had it with all of them, his brothers *and* Treville *and* Kitos and Reynard. 

The completion had been so... 

But more than that, greater than that, was the sense that all questions could finally be *answered*, that there could be a *true* end to doubt, at least with these people, that there could be *absolute* trust — 

And then, of course, it had been torn away as the other Treville and his brothers had *yanked* themselves to — 

Another sphere?

Can he really trust *that*? 

His brothers — his *loves* — would have it that trust comes with surrender, that *understanding* comes with surrender, but... 

But he is weak, and hurt, and cold, and *angry* in the deepest, darkest pits of himself in the absence of the bond he'd been given a taste of — and a part of him *would* honestly prefer a slow death just like this to simply — 

Giving in. 

To a *copy*. 

To the man staring wryly into his eyes just as if he knows precisely what Athos is thinking. 

That, too, is infuriating — but he can keep his control. He says nothing. 

He waits. 

He — 

And then Treville turns to d'Artagnan. "Son. Are you waiting to see which way the Athos-wind blows?" 

"I trust *him* with my life," d'Artagnan says, lifting his chin and daring — 

"You know, son, when you do that, you're really just daring a man to hit you there."

That. 

d'Artagnan narrows his eyes. "Were you planning to take that dare?" 

Treville laughs softly. "Not at all. I'm planning to tell you that one of the more *recent* things that made me think 'Porthos should've always been mine' was watching the way he took you under his wing and gently — ever so gently — guided you away from every thought that would take you away from the garrison." 

d'Artagnan blinks — 

"Well, I had to, sir," Porthos says. "Couldn't let him get *away*." 

"That's *right*," Treville says. "You were ours, d'Artagnan —" 

"I —" 

"You. Were. Ours. Smart. Strong. Resilient. Passionate. Practical — sometimes," Treville says, and grins. "You left the other recruits in the dust and you'd never even *seriously* thought about a life like this one." 

"I *had*! I'd — dreamed." 

"Sometimes...?" 

d'Artagnan flushes. "I hadn't... I hadn't seen. Anything like... I didn't know. What I was missing." 

Treville licks his lips and growls. "Neither did we. Until we met you." 

"Stop, you're not — you're not *seducing* me!" 

Treville nods. "Then I'll just say this. I have, in my literal hands, what you dreamed of. What you *want*. What you *crave*." 

"I don't want to be your *slave*!" 

"Then don't be," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. "I won't lie and say you won't feel any desire when we're sharing blood — there's going to be too much of a *resonance* between what the other Treville left *behind* in you and what you'll be taking from me for you not to feel a certain degree of *potentially* uncomfortable —" 

"Give in to it, little brother..." 

"*Aramis*!" 

Aramis laughs, low and — filthy. "Give in, and let yourself feel —" 

"That's enough," Athos says, wanting badly to back his words up with action, a *gesture* — 

He can feel himself getting closer and closer to simply collapsing. 

He — "The fact that you're comfortable with — all of this —" 

"You will be, too, friend Athos," Aramis says, moving with ease, strength, *comfort* against Porthos. "We have much in common, do we not?" 

Athos shuts his teeth with a click — 

And Aramis smiles at him. "We could have more in common..." And he cups Porthos's face — 

Strokes Porthos's *mouth* — 

Porthos parts his lips — 

Turns toward Aramis — 

Had Porthos shared with either Aramis or Treville Athos's fantasies about kissing him? 

About Athos's *need* to kiss, to take — 

To be taken by that *mouth* — 

Aramis is dragging his fingers back and forth over and *over* Porthos's lips — 

He can't — 

Porthos *must* have — 

"Do you want this, friend Athos...? I want it all the time. My beautiful Porthos. My beautiful *Master*, who is so kind, who makes so many *allowances*." 

"Pet... not everyone is um. Ready..." 

"He has no choice, my Master," Aramis says, without looking away from Athos. "He is weak now — see how the tremor does not stop anymore? We *must* seduce him to this." 

"We don't bloody want to be *seduced*, Aramis!" 

"Little brother. My hole remembers your lips so well..." 

d'Artagnan barks a *cry* — 

"I think, perhaps, you enjoy being seduced more than you... protest," Aramis says, and gives d'Artagnan a *hard* look. 

d'Artagnan blushes *deeply* — 

This is a conversation Athos has not been privy to. An *intimacy* — 

An intimacy Athos desires, so much — 

He wants to know everything *about* d'Artagnan, and every moment Athos has spent drinking and brooding and not taking up his overtures of friendship — 

They're in this burn, this need, this — 

This thick *block* in his *throat* that's keeping him from saying *anything* — 

From protecting d'Artagnan from Aramis at his most devastating. 

In the end, he doesn't know whether d'Artagnan would *like* his protection. 

He turns away, shaking, *weak* — 

And Treville is there, hand *light* on his shoulder — 

Warm through his leathers — 

"The other me gave you... something you think I can't." 

Athos doesn't *say* anything — 

"The other me gave you something you don't *trust* me to give you." 

Athos doesn't — 

"Athos? Are you — what's wrong?" 

d'Artagnan is always so *aware* of his *needs* — 

"Please don't — fuck, it feels like I'll fall *down* if I try to *reach* for you —" 

"You probably will!" Aramis calls cheerfully. *Evilly* — 

"Fuck, *Aramis*, don't be so —" d'Artagnan growls. "We're just trying to be *reasonable* over here!" 

"Right," Porthos says. "You're trying to be *reasonable* by refusing to get *healed* from your *crippling magical injury* by the man we all trusted as of two bloody days ago. Is *that* what you're saying." 

d'Artagnan says nothing. 

Athos believes he can feel his blush — 

He wants to. 

He — 

He won't, ever again, if he doesn't get healed. 

He looks at Treville. "I'll take your blood." 

"*Athos* —" 

"We must — we must think of our commissions, d'Artagnan," Athos says, turning with painful slowness. 

d'Artagnan frowns, shaking his head and *trembling* — 

"No — be careful —" 

"That's not what you're thinking about, at *all*!" 

Fuck — "I'm. Thinking of you. Of the chance to touch you again, and how I will not have it — please."

Treville inhales sharply — 

Porthos winces — 

And even Aramis stills. *Pauses* his seduction. 

Athos nods. "Please," he says again, and raises his shaking hand. For a moment, it seems as though he won't be able to reach d'Artagnan's beautiful face — but then he does — 

d'Artagnan is staring at him with wide, wondering eyes — "You love me." 

"I'm in love with you. I've — please." 

d'Artagnan moans and shakes *harder* — 

"Be *careful* —" 

And then he turns to Treville — "Do it. Just do it. I'll — I'll do anything to have Athos, and I can't believe you'd do anything to hurt that." 

"I truly wouldn't, son. And you'll know that for yourself soon enough," Treville says, in a *soft* voice — 

Low and *rumbling* — 

He lifts his nose — "Athos is worse off, but sit down before you fall down, d'Artagnan. Porthos —" 

"We've got him," he says, and he and Aramis are flanking d'Artagnan, pulling him to a space relatively clear of rubble and setting him down — 

Being *careful* with him — 

He never looks away from *Athos* — 

And Athos can't — no. 

He takes Treville's offered arm — 

He *drinks* — 

And he nearly spills as the thrill of it — 

The immediate *rush* of power and — and *health* — 

His groans are getting in the way of his *swallows* — 

He silences himself — 

He's shaking for other *reasons* — 

And Treville is steadying him, holding him with his strong hand the way he always has when Athos has been weak before him — 

Holding him and caring — 

Easing him back — 

He wants more, he needs more — 

"Shh, it's all right. You've had enough —" 

"God — *God* — I want —" 

"I know. It's almost done," Treville says, and his teeth are long and pointed again, dog-like despite being in a reasonably human-shaped mouth — 

For a harsh, shocking, *needful* moment, Athos wants to bare his *throat* — 

He *knows* Treville must be able to see it in his eyes — 

He *pants* — and shifts his teeth back before smiling gently. "The arm is a lot easier to explain... in terms of animal bites." 

Athos — can't seem to. 

He can't. 

He nods, and peels back his leathers, and — 

And Treville *shifts* again — 

And *bites*, hard and shallow — 

So hot — 

So *hot*, and he starts lapping almost *immediately* — 

Groaning — 

*Tasting* him — 

*Holding* him — 

("Steady on, Olivier — we'll have to drill you on your footwork tomorrow —" 

"Oh — can't we do it now?")

And Treville had grinned down at him, wild and mussed and pleased — 

("Now...? You wouldn't rather your books? Your games?" 

"No, sir!"

"Mm. That's what we *like*.") 

And Treville had spun away from him, graceful and quick on his feet — 

("Watch me.") 

Athos doesn't know which of them is remembering this — 

Athos doesn't know which of them are *pulling* Athos's mind to the *dancing* light in Treville's eyes that day — 

The breadth of his smile when Athos had perfected something — 

The part of his lips when Athos had strained, struggled — 

The way he had *stopped* Athos when exhaustion had started making him clumsy, stopped him with his body, his strong hands — 

("Come inside.") 

And — 

He can feel Treville. 

He can feel everything *about* him. His self, his truth, the way it *had* been ridiculous to fight him for so long, and the way it hadn't. The man has lied habitually, hidden his desires for them, acted as though there was nothing — could *be* nothing — among them but — 

(Should I have seduced you when you were a boy? Olivier?) 

Athos stops — 

*Stops* — 

But. I wanted you. 

(You didn't know that. I know you didn't.) 

I knew it by the time I came to you — to *you*, sir, not the Musketeers — for my three seasons of training.

(... I know that.) 

And?

(I hid from you, as much as I could, because I greatly feared what I would do with *my brother's child* should that child try to seduce me.) 

And Athos *stops* again — 

Treville laps at his arm so *gently* — 

He — 

(I love you, son.) 

And. You loved my father. 

(If you had not been your father's son... but then, perhaps, I wouldn't have loved you so well), Treville says, and pulls back, and stands. 

They stare into each other's eyes while Treville touches his head, his breastbone, his *cock* — 

He's *hard* — 

"You're well, son," Treville says, and steps back, just like that. 

And Athos — pants. He feels precisely as strong as he *should* — no. He feels *stronger* than he ever has. He feels more healthy, more — 

He feels as though he hasn't taken a drink in *weeks*, like he's been on campaign in rich country — 

"Did you — sir. Did you do more than simply heal us?" 

Treville raises an eyebrow. "I bound you, as I —" 

"No. Did you... strengthen us?" 

"Ah. The bond itself strengthens, in part due to my own rather enhanced vitality, and in part due to the nature of the magic itself. You'll wax and wane, to a certain extent, with me — and with your brothers — so take care of each other." 

"And you?" 

Treville laughs. "I'll handle that, thank —" 

"No," Porthos says. "You bloody *won't*." 

Treville stops in his *tracks* — "Was that an order, son?" He doesn't look at Porthos — 

"Sir."

And *then* Treville turns to Porthos — 

And Athos can *feel* how much Treville wants — 

"We both know you want me to be a little hard on you sometimes, sir." 

"You — don't have to be." 

"But you want it." 

"Son —" 

"It's one of the ways to take care of you. Isn't it." 

Treville growls. "I have to take care of my *boy*." 

"A boy's got to take care of his *dog*." 

And Treville... barks. 

Every last one of them blushes. 

Even Aramis, who is *openly* cupping his cock through his leathers. Still — "A good Daddy lets his sons care for him," he says, breathless and *hungry*. 

Treville looks *hunted*, at the edge of his *control* — and Athos realizes that *he* could've put that expression on his face. 

That he still can. 

"I believe," he says, "that you should take your son's order. Sir." 

Treville's head *jerks* — 

He *growls* —

And then... he pants, tongue slipping out between his lips for just a moment. "I'd like that," he says. "I'd like to take my boy's orders." 

*Porthos* pants. "Then don't you ever try to take care of *yourself* unless you sodding *have* to." 

"When. When is that, son?" 

"When we're not here. When I'm not anywhere you can put your *hands* on me. When I'm not anywhere you can *reach* me." 

"When," Athos says, heart pounding — "When *we're* not anywhere you can reach *us*." 

Treville *moans*, standing *rigid* —

It — 

It's so — 

"Athos...?" And d'Artagnan's voice is so small, so weak and *ill*, so *wrong* — 

Athos growls and goes to him *immediately*, lifting d'Artagnan's long, perfect body into his arms and squeezing, clutching — 

"Oh — fuck — I can't hold you back — I can't — are you all *right*? Are you... still..." 

Athos can think of no way to *answer* that properly — but. 

He kisses d'Artagnan, and fancies he can still taste traces of Aramis's musk — 

Even d'Artagnan's *lips* are trembling — 

Athos kisses him *harder* — 

Holds and *supports* him — 

"I love you," d'Artagnan slurs into his mouth, "I love you so much, I love you and I thought I couldn't — mm — *mm* —" 

Athos can't let those words out into the air — 

He can't give them *freedom* — 

He kisses d'Artagnan *harder* — and takes the way Treville *supports* d'Artagnan's weight for him with gratitude, need — 

He cups d'Artagnan's face, strokes his sides, squeezes his hips, cups his face again — 

*Kisses* d'Artagnan, and tries to say everything worthy, everything — 

(It will be easier... after,) Treville says.

Athos *pants* — and pulls back. Just enough to be able to meet d'Artagnan's dazed eyes, breathe his breath — 

His gaze is so — 

"d'Artagnan. It — all is well. I promise you. Are you ready?" 

"Yes, Athos. I'll — anything. *Anything*." 

Athos growls and kisses him again — 

His lips are *swollen* — 

He's trying and *failing* to kiss Athos back — 

Athos growls and *forces* himself to pull away — 

"Here, son," Treville says, and lifts his arm to d'Artagnan lips. 

"Mm — *MM* —" 

"I know you're surprised to like it, son. Your body — your *soul* — is primed for it now." 

d'Artagnan shudders — 

His knees *buckle* — but Treville holds him easily. 

Athos helps to support him anyway — 

And Aramis and Porthos join them. 

Aramis, especially, is studying closely — "How much blood can you *give* at one time, Daddy?" 

"Not much more than this," Treville says. "Not without feeling weak and somewhat tired. You know this well enough from your work as a surgeon." 

"You are no normal man!" 

Treville... rumbles. "Thank you for that, son. But some of me is normal *enough*," he says, and turns to rumble in d'Artagnan's ear — 

d'Artagnan shivers — 

"I know you were raised on a farm, son. You must've had dogs of your own. Does this voice soothe you?" 

d'Artagnan pauses *visibly*, even as he sucks — and then he nods. 

"Good to know," Treville says. "Take a little more. Suck harder." 

d'Artagnan moans — 

Blood runs down his *chin* — and Aramis brushes it away, then sucks his fingers clean. 

"Easy, son. You can be neater than that. Just watch your control," Treville says. 

d'Artagnan nods and quiets himself — and sucks in hard pulses. Once — 

Twice — 

Again —

*Again* — 

"There. That's enough," Treville says, tugging his arm away gently and — licking the wound himself. 

It closes — more cleanly than if it had been stitched — 

But d'Artagnan is moaning, shivering — 

Athos kisses his cheek, hugs him, chafes his arms — 

He's *dazed* — 

"I'm so — I'm — *sir*," d'Artagnan says, blinking and moaning more — 

"I'll make it better, son," Treville says. "I'll tell you secrets, too." And he grins and winks before shifting his teeth again — 

Taking d'Artagnan's arm and peeling his leathers *back* — 

He *bites* — 

"Hnn —" 

And there's a moment when d'Artagnan is only stiff and shaking among them — 

A moment that feels *pregnant* with — with a meaning Athos can't *guess* at — 

And then Treville starts to lick — 

And there is — 

There is such — 

Athos feels them, feels all of them, feels — 

(*Fuck*, brothers — *sir* — ) 

(Oh, brothers, my brothers, my *Daddy*, *yes* —) 

(Oh. Oh. You — I'm — I'm *here* — with all of *you*!) 

(My sons. My beautiful *sons*. *Athos*. Is this what you missed?)

And Athos has to grunt, has to shiver — 

Has to realize, at last, that the connection he'd had before had only lasted for an instant, had only lasted long enough for the other Treville to *cement* his power before he'd yanked himself and his brothers back to that other sphere. 

This — 

This is ongoing — 

(This is forever, son. Get *used* to it,) Treville says, and his laughter is a growl, a series of *alien*, *belling* yips in a moonlit night that seems desolate — 

Bare and *hot* — 

Is there sand? Is that what — 

But he can't concentrate on that, he — 

d'Artagnan is a *wondering* presence within him, shocked and thrilled, so — 

He hadn't known he was so *loved* — 

And then Athos can't help showing him himself, showing him his bravery, his unstinting *fearlessness* in the face of things lesser men — including *great* men — would quail before — 

And Aramis shows him his heart, his tenderness, his openness in the face of a background which would demand just the opposite — 

And Porthos shows him his cheer, his humour, his laughter, his *kindness* in the face of his grief, his misfortune — so many would be so *cold* — 

So many *have* been — 

*Athos* has been — 

(Shh, son,) Treville says, and *touches* them all somehow — 

Touches them with his spirit, his soul or his power — 

(All of the above,) he says, and laughs that yipping laugh again — (d'Artagnan. Look,) he says, and shows d'Artagnan his explosive violence, his phenomenal skill with pistol and knife and sword, with his own beautiful limbs. 

He shows d'Artagnan his snarls, his bared teeth in the face of battle, his thrill and his power and rage — 

He shows d'Artagnan his *lust* for the fight, for the *darkness* that lives within every warrior, for — 

(But — is that — is that a good *thing*?) 

(It will save your life a thousand times over, and the lives of your brothers an *uncountable* number of times, son. As such, it's the most beautiful thing of all.) 

(I —) 

(And it makes Daddy hard,) Porthos says, *laughing* hard. 

(Oh, yes, this is a very good thing,) Aramis says. (A *beautiful* and — large — Daddy.) 

(Yes, son?) 

(There was something very notable about the other Treville's *cock*.) 

(Mine is just as notable, son. At *all* times.) 

(Wait, what?) 

And there is a moment — 

Shared, beautifully shared, intoxicatingly *shared* — 

There is a moment when Aramis is only remembering the other Treville making love to his brothers in *lurid* detail — 

And the detail focuses quickly on the other Treville's *distinctly* canine — if rather large — cock. 

(Oh my God,) d'Artagnan says. 

Indeed, Athos says. 

Aramis sighs — 

(Pet, were you staring at his cock the *whole* time?) 

(What were *you* looking at, my Master?) 

(You know, everything!) 

(Did you *desire* everything you saw, my Master...?) 

(Uhh...)

They can all feel that the answer is yes. They — 

And Aramis is laughing breathlessly, inside and out — 

And d'Artagnan and *Treville* are both snickering — 

And Athos — 

Athos can't help but smile as he blinks himself to something like a focus on his actual surroundings, on his physical body, locked round d'Artagnan's — 

Locked round his love's. 

d'Artagnan smiles down into his eyes. 

"So, just to float this down the river," Porthos says, and squeezes Aramis firmly. "Why don't we *all* go... somewhere? With... a bed? Or more than one bed?" 

d'Artagnan blinks — 

And Treville's eyes flare that *hot* blue. "You all know perfectly well how much *I* would enjoy that... but." 

d'Artagnan turns in Athos's arms and glares — "We also all know perfectly well — we're all *hard* for you, sir!" 

"That's *not* all that's needed — 

"I *know*, but — it's not all we have." 

Treville growls, brief as a punch. 

"Oh. Sir?" 

And Treville cups d'Artagnan's face. "You're beautiful for every reason your brothers named. Wonderful. *Needful*." 

"I want — to always be that. I need that."

"Remember that need, and you have a good chance of having your wish," Treville says, and strokes d'Artagnan's cheek. 

d'Artagnan nods and licks his lips — 

Treville studies him — 

Sniffs —

"Are you — are you actually *sniffing* me to decide if I'm ready for a sexual relationship with you?" 

"It has a long and storied history in the animal kingdom, son —" 

"What — you —" 

"Now, hold still so I can get a good whiff of your armpits —" 

"Fuck —" 

"Also, your crotch — that's key —" 

d'Artagnan splutters — "*Bastard* —" 

Treville grins — "That I am," he says, and leans in to lick d'Artagnan's mouth — 

"*Oh*." 

"I smell garrison horses nearby. Let's *go*." 

"I — Athos, are you —" 

"I believe you can *feel* that I'm entirely in favour —" 

"Oh, God, don't use this to go back to not *talking* to me!" 

He had, in fact, had plans in that direction. Hm. "I... like the idea of the two of us joining our brothers and father —"

"Oh my God, that's dirty — keep talking!"

"It is, isn't it," Athos says, and smiles ruefully. "I like everything which gives me time with you. And. I will be a better man." 

"For me?" 

"For me, in order to deserve you." 

And d'Artagnan's beautiful dark eyes widen for that — 

So *perfectly* — 

Athos kisses him one more time, before following him to where the horses are tethered.


	13. Ending One, Part Four: Should has nothing to do with the loss of a love.

"I can't believe you're making us ride all the way back out to your *manor*, Daddy," Porthos says, and apologizes to his cock, which had gotten very hopeful back in the city. 

"*I* can't believe you expected me to make love to you all in the *plague* barracks, son." 

"I, for one, have *many* fond memories of the plague barracks, Daddy," Aramis says, smiling and comfortable and strong, beautiful — 

He's riding on Porthos's other side and smiling like a wolf again — 

"Don't you, d'Artagnan...?" 

d'Artagnan laughs a *little* nervously — he's riding behind with Athos at his side — "A *few*, yeah —" 

"Only a *few*? I am insulted!" 

d'Artagnan coughs. "I was... intoxicated by your beauty?" 

"No, no," Porthos says. "If you're going to try that tack, lad, you have to sound *convinced*." 

"Oh, yes, this is so," Aramis says. "*Seduce* me with your words!" 

"I don't *do* that," d'Artagnan says, laughing more. "*Ever*." 

"Well, you could *start*," Porthos says.

"Oh, yes —" 

"*Don't* start," Athos says. "You're a remarkably blunt and *honest* young man, and that's... wonderful." 

"Aw, Athos, don't go using your *wiles* on him. He's *impressionable*." 

"My —" 

"I'm *what*?"

"Oh, yes," Aramis says. "You are young and tender, soft and vulnerable as a lamb among starving and libidinous wolves —" 

"Son." And Daddy turns to *look* at Aramis. 

"Yes, Daddy?" 

"Are the wolves going to *eat* d'Artagnan or *fuck* him?" 

"Oh, Daddy, I am certain that you know far more of the ways of canines than I do," Aramis says. Demurely, like. And also — 

"Was that a *hopeful* tone in your voice, son?" 

And also kind of hopeful. 

Aramis hums and makes his Cosette step lively for a few paces — 

Daddy *snorts* — 

"I'm even more offended by that other Treville's comment about the horses and goats now," d'Artagnan says. 

"To be fair," Athos says, "Reynard did call Aramis an alley-cat. That rather implies a certain lack of... choosiness, when it comes to sexual partners." 

Daddy splutters. "*Reynard* called someone *else* an alley-cat? *Reynard*?"

"Heh. *That* sounds like a story or twenty," Porthos says, and waggles his eyebrows. Show us everything, Daddy. Give us everything. 

(Everything for my boys.) And Daddy hums. "Reynard would fuck a knothole in a tree if he had enough grease to hand to ease the way." 

They all splutter a bit for that one — 

"Well, and if the tree looked reasonably fit in skirts." 

"See, that's the thing, Daddy," Porthos says, and *looks* at him. "Reynard didn't show *any* sign of chasing after *anyone* but you and Kitos." 

"I." 

"He was all *over* the other you, sir," d'Artagnan says. "I mean, he might as well have been grabbing you by the *cock*." 

"I — other people often *thought* the two of us were — involved —" 

"For a reason, I believe," Athos says, with that wry little smile in his voice. 

And Daddy blushes. "I'm still... catching up to myself. I never made love to Reynard, or Kitos, before they died on this sphere. *I* never did. I... still have a lot have wrong-headed ideas about who they were, and are. And who we all were to each other." 

And that... hurts Porthos's heart. It's too much — 

(It's all right, son —) 

It isn't. They *loved* you. They loved you like — like nothing *else*. 

And Daddy closes his eyes — 

The others are *quiet* — but there. 

Waiting and watching and — letting Porthos do this. 

"Daddy..." 

"Son." 

"Kitos, Reynard, Laurent... Daddy, did you think... who *did* you think loved you?" 

And Daddy *opens* his eyes and *looks* at him with an eyebrow raised. 

"You know what I mean. You know *exactly* what I mean." 

And — Daddy turns away, looking at the back of his bay's neck. "I didn't think that was for me." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"And if you all forget your horsemanship and start crowding me for that, I'm going to take you off *duty*."

"Sir," Athos says. "Even I thought I would have *one* chance." 

Porthos strangles on a *horrible* laugh — 

Daddy *looks* at him for it — 

Aramis coughs into his fist — 

d'Artagnan *feels* horrified — 

And Athos hums. "Yes, precisely. I —" 

"Some of us," Daddy says, "Are pessimists." 

"But you weren't, Daddy," Aramis says. "You —" 

"That was not me, you must understand —" 

"But he could've *been* you, yes?" And Athos's tone is that of firming a point. "You spoke of 'growing out of' being him, not of *never* being him."

Daddy frowns, and doesn't say a word. 

"Right, *that*," Porthos says. "So — Ife said *losing* your brothers was what made you dark. Was she right?" 

Daddy's expression gets — dark. Just — 

And, just like that, they're staring down at Kitos's *body*, his *dead* body in a narrow, ice-slicked stairwell — 

His blood is everywhere — 

They're *all* choking on grief they know they have no time to *express* — 

They all *know* they won't have time to retrieve his body until it's *stiff* — 

Porthos *yanks* Daddy away from the memory, giving him the one he has of Kitos drowning Reynard in all that hair while Reynard reaches up for him with shaking hands — 

The memory of their kiss —

Daddy grunts — "He — they — oh. Oh..." 

The memory of their *life*, their *love* — 

Daddy crushes it to himself, as much as he can — 

And Athos gives him a memory of Kitos yanking Reynard away from the other Treville's reach while Reynard snickers like a boy — 

And Aramis gives him a memory of Kitos smiling cheerfully at *them* while feeding Reynard his massive cock — 

And d'Artagnan gives him a memory of Kitos — aiming the other Treville's pistol at Yejide's eye. 

It. 

"Uh..." 

"Fuck — I panicked!" 

Daddy splutters. "Why — what — why the sodding hell would I *let* him —" 

"Things had gotten a bit *tense*, Daddy," Aramis says, very politic, like. 

"Uh — yeah. Tense." 

Athos — snorts. "Reynard had just threatened to murder us all." 

"Oh — fuck —" Daddy splutters more.

"And piss on our bodies, do not forget that," Aramis says. 

"I could *never*," Porthos says. "Certainly, d'Artagnan couldn't —" 

"Oh, would you *stop*?" 

Aramis snickers like a boy. "I just cannot believe you did that for your first *time*, little brother!" 

"*Look* —" 

"Wait, wait," Porthos says, and *looks* at Daddy — 

Wishes, badly, that he could smell him — 

Taste him on the air and find out how he *feels* — 

(You can do that other ways now, son,) Daddy says, smiling inside him — 

Inside all of them — 

(Yes, son, it worked. That sort of approach will *always* work.) 

"Especially the bit with him taking aim at my foster mum?" 

Daddy raises an eyebrow at him — 

So does Aramis — 

Athos and d'Artagnan just *feel* extremely interested back there — 

"What? She — and women just like her, before her — was all the lot of us had, most of the time." 

"*Her*, my Master?" 

"Yeah, why?" 

"I." 

And, abruptly, Aramis is thinking of the moment when Yejide's 'tea' had turned to blood, and of the moment when Yejide had used Porthos's body to present a painful object lesson. 

Which — 

"Yeah, that happens from time to time with witches like her, but what's the issue here?" 

No one says anything. 

Everyone says nothing really *loudly*. 

"Seriously, *what*?" 

Aramis clears his throat and turns to Daddy. "So, you were going to adopt Porthos on that other sphere?" 

"Absolutely," Daddy says, with an air of relief. "And my Amina-love wasn't the slightest bit surprised by my pushing for it, which means that the Treville I was, for lack of a better term, *riding*, had pushed for it in the past. He just hadn't gotten any traction." 

"But you did, sir?" And d'Artagnan sounds — and feels — hopeful. 

Daddy smiles, warm and pleased. "I did. She swatted me a good one for killing Belgard, but when I impressed upon her *why* I had done it, and what Porthos's life had been like without either of us... she hugged me tight. I'd missed the feel of those strong arms of hers. Like *air*." 

"Oh — Daddy," Porthos says, and swallows. 

"Here, son," Daddy says, and — 

There she is. 

His mum. 

Dark and strong and bright and beautiful, and the angle is all wrong — Porthos should be looking *up* at her, not slightly down — but *she's* right, *just* right — 

He can see how much he takes *after* her — 

He can — 

Porthos shudders and tries to breathe, tries to think, tries to — to do anything but just drink this *in* — 

She's right there — 

She's right there in his *mind*, more clear than she's been in so *long* — 

Oh, she's crying even as she smiles — 

("Jean-*Armand*. Are you offering to take care of me — of us — *again*?" 

"I'm *begging* to do it, Amina-love. Even though you keep calling me that.") 

And she laughs — 

Dashes tears away with her strong, rough hands — 

And then Daddy's hands are there, brutally-scarred and pale against her skin — and gentle as he wipes the tears away — 

("Oh —" 

"There — there, now —" 

"I call you that because you never *listen* to anything *else* —" 

"I listen to everything you say, everything since the very first night —" 

"Oh — *Treville* —" 

"I'd do anything to hear you laugh — I know it's not the time —") 

She gurgles then — 

And *caws*, hard and loud and *raucous*, so — 

("Oh, *yes* —" 

"You have the *worst* timing!" 

"That's true —" 

"I do not understand how you manage to kill *anyone*. You — you would go to slash a throat and cut open a man's trouser laces, instead —" 

"No more than twice a week —") 

And she *hoots* — 

Chortles and *caws* again — 

She's crying *freely*, but her laughter is so loud, so *free* — 

("Please. Please stay with me. Please be with me — even if you won't be my bride —" 

"Your — oh, don't make me call you by your Christian name *again*!" 

"I confess, I've missed even *that*...")

And his mum gasps, and looks at Daddy so softly, so — 

She holds his hands to her face — 

("Amina..." 

"Oh, my brother, my sweet brother..." 

"I promise, the next time someone threatens Porthos, I'll let *you* eviscerate him, I won't ever be selfish —" 

"You *eviscerated* —" 

"I made a terrible mess; it was long overdue; you can beat me for it weekly — nightly, if you'd like —") 

She splutters and cackles — 

("You would *like* that too much!"

"How much is too much? I'll like it only half that much —" 

"Oh, stop making me — I can't *breathe* —") 

And Daddy kisses her, soft and sudden and — 

And Porthos can feel how much he'd needed to do it, how much he'd — 

Porthos can't make himself pull *away* from that need, it's too much, it's his mother, it's too *much*, but he hasn't *had* her — 

But then Daddy pulls back — 

("I'm sorry, I'm —" 

"Are you?") 

And Daddy is silent for a long moment, but not a very long one — 

("No. No, I. I need you. I need you so *badly* —" 

"Is this what you need from me?") 

And she looks at him hard, *hard* — 

She looks — 

God, she looks *through* him, she must be, Porthos *feels* it — 

("Amina —" 

"Answer me.") 

And Daddy groans — 

("I need you, I need all of you, everything I can bloody have. I'm not the *same*. You *know* I'm not the same —" 

"The spells. They... they changed the way you look at... women.") 

And she frowns — 

("No — I mean, yes, they *did*, but you never have to — I won't *force* myself —" 

"I *know* that, Treville — oh, sweet brother, you have never looked at me like *this*!" 

"I've spent the past twenty-five years *dreaming* of you!") 

She gasps again, then, stepping back — 

("Don't — ah, fuck, don't — you can't be *uncomfortable* with me — I *am* sorry —" 

"*Shut* it — I need — just a little air. I cannot get *aroused* now without feeling like everything in the lower half of my body is *moving* wrong." 

"What — what?") 

And his mum had *looked* at Daddy — and then at her *extremely* pregnant belly. 

("*Oh* — *fuck* —" 

"Do not *apologize* again. The fact that you lust for me like this —") 

She *snorts* — 

*Honks* — 

("Ah, *fuck*, brother! If I'd known I just had to get pregnant to make you see me, I would've been *guzzling* spend!") 

Daddy *splutters* — 

Porthos is *blinking* and spluttering, too — 

He can't — 

He can't *believe* — 

("I don't — I don't think it works... that way...") 

She *hoots* more — 

*Clutches* at her belly and staggers — 

("Oh — oh, God, are you all *right* —" 

"Take me to *bed* —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"The bed which will be *our* bed — and I will make — mm. I will make a *massive* mess in it in just a few weeks — oh, I wanted the babe's name to be a surprise!" 

"It was — it will be — you know what I mean —" 

"Oh, *brother* — shit. Will I have to stop calling you that?" 

"No, never —" 

"And what will you do about your Laurent, mm? Your Marie-*Angelique*, with her soft hands and her pretty pale skin?" 

"I...") 

And his mother's gaze had been hard, unreadable, *sharp* — 

Porthos can feel Daddy's *churning* lack of ability to make thoughts *happen* — 

His *need* for Porthos's mum and his panic and his love for all of them, everyone — 

And then his mum firms her soft, broad lips together, eyes *sparkling* — 

Starts *huffing* little breaths out of her nose — 

("Oh — *fuck*, Amina —"

"You looked like a *fish*!" 

"I —" 

"You still do!" 

"Well... have you *always* been attracted to fish?" 

"Oh, *shit*, my brother, if you make me *cackle* out the babe, I will never *forgive* you!" 

"I will *definitely* not do that... in the study..." 

"You *prick* —" 

"Let me kiss you again.") 

And she looks at him, bright and warm, sweet and *happy* — 

Her eyes are still wet, but the tears are of *laughter* — 

She beckons — 

And Daddy kisses the tears *away* — 

("Oh — Jean-*Armand* —"

"I love you, I love you, I *love* —" 

"Kiss my *mouth*. And I will be — mm — I will be — *mm* —" 

"What will you be? You can be anything, everything, *mine* —" 

"You will make me Laurent's sister —" 

"Fuck, God, *yes* —" 

"And — *MM* — *mmmm* — Marie-Angelique's *friend* — somehow —" 

"She *needs* more friends with minds in their heads — oh, *sister* —")

And Daddy sweeps his mum up into his arms — 

She gasps — 

She gasps into his *mouth* — 

And Daddy lets them all feel this kiss, this *hard* kiss, warm and hot at once, needy, *needy* — 

He lets them feel how much he has to *tell* her with this kiss, how he'll always wait for her, how he'll do his best not to *arouse* her, but she's his, and he's hers — 

Her *knight* — 

He carries her up the stairs — 

She *moans* into his mouth, clutching him around the neck with one arm and cupping his face with the other hand — 

So hard — 

So *strong*, and Porthos is remembering it with so many parts of himself — 

Feeling it and needing it even as he feels her tongue sweep through his mouth — 

Daddy *sucks* — 

She *grunts* — 

She *claws* his face — 

Daddy *growls*, pulling back to lick her mouth, her face, her *throat* — 

("Oh — I don't want to *stop* you!") 

Daddy growls again and pulls *back* — 

("It's — too much?") 

He walks down a long hall and kicks open one of the many doors, not even breathing hard. 

("Tell me — tell me, *please*.") 

She looks at him — and then down at her belly again, smiling *ruefully*. 

("If... I feel very sensitive in some places where I'm usually not, and very *insensitive* in places where I'm usually... I don't know if I can be a *good* lover, my brother.")

Daddy pants *then*, laying her down on the big bed and kissing her forehead.

("Perhaps. Perhaps you'll let me take care of you that way, as well." 

"I. Do you know *how*?") 

They laugh together, then, soft and hushed. 

("Yes,") Daddy says, and kisses her again. 

The images fade to just Daddy's hand on her belly — 

To just her young and wondering *smile* — 

To just the sound of her *giggles* — 

And then Porthos is here again, just here, on a horse — 

On the road to the de Tréville manor on *this* sphere — 

And Daddy has his reins. It — 

*Fuck* — 

"Did you take everyone else's reins, too?" 

"You were the only one experiencing that memory that... deeply." 

"I — but — the rest of you weren't —" 

"We could see it, my Master, but we did not... immerse ourselves entirely," Aramis says, and he's a touch inside Porthos, warmth, *comfort* — 

A part of Porthos only wants to ask why they didn't immerse themselves. 

The rest of him — 

The rest of him misses his mum. 

(Oh, son...) 

"How — how much longer did you have with her?" 

"Hours. I'd... left her sleeping so I could see about which room would be best for the nursery, and if we'd want to move our bedroom to be closer to it... that sort of thing. I was ordering new furniture in my mind, wondering just who I'd have to summon to get what *done*... and then I was back here." 

"And the other you — the you *from* that sphere..." 

"Thanking his lucky stars, I'd wager. And cursing me for having touched her *first*." 

Porthos doesn't ask why Daddy had cut the memory off *there*. 

He doesn't ask. 

He doesn't *ask*. He already *knows* why. 

He shouldn't *want* — 

"Should has nothing to do with matters like this, son," Daddy says, and keeps Porthos's reins right where they are. "When the people we love are *stolen* from us before their time, before we're anything like ready..." 

"We'll take anything," d'Artagnan says, and his voice is a little hollow — and a lot hungry. "Just — anything." 

"Exactly so. I've never known a properly put-together person who *didn't* work that way," Daddy says. 

Porthos's heart — aches. 

"Which — raises the question of why I stopped the memory, I know." 

"I... yeah. Please." 

"I'll give it to you, son. Right now — if you're sure you *want* it right now. But... it might take away your ability to have other things you've said you wanted tonight —" 

Porthos *blinks* —

"— and I am your *dog*. My first concern is always going to be taking care of you." 

And so Porthos forces himself to *think* about what he's asking for. Not just more of his mum — but more of his mum having sex. 

Not just more of his mum having sex — but more of his mum making *love* with the man *he* wants to make love with, and share his lover and brothers with. 

It — 

She hadn't *had* a man that he knew about when they were living in the Court together. Porthos doesn't have a — a *context* for this. 

He doesn't — and does he want one?

Does he *need* one?

He just wants more of his *mum*, his happy, *healthy* mum, and with one of the men he loves most in the *world*, and it feels so *right* — 

It feels so *perfect* — 

It feels like it was always *meant* to be like that, somehow, even though it also feels right to be thinking about making love with Daddy himself. 

He's not an *idiot*. He *knows* there's — there's a *lot* wrong there — 

(Oh, son, son, no, don't get yourself all wound up —) 

Porthos growls — "I don't know what I *want*!" 

Yves snorts and tosses his head beneath him — 

The others are *silent* — 

Until Aramis makes a small, *small* sound and says: "My Master, I think the problem is that you *do* know what you want."

Porthos — doesn't flinch. He doesn't — 

"You mustn't think —" Athos growls. "*Feel* us, brother —" 

"Oh — *Athos* —" 

"You know none of us *judge* you —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"You know all of us *understand* — inasmuch as we *can* —" 

"*Yes*, Porthos," d'Artagnan says. "You — I can't imagine what I'd do for a chance to have more of my Dad. You *know*. You *all* know. Even if it seemed... wrong." 

And Aramis is warmth all around him, solid and sure, still — 

So — 

(Forever, my Master.) "Do not deny yourself what you need. Do not *ever*. How will you take care of your pet if you do?" 

Porthos growls — 

*Needs* — 

"Take, son," Daddy says —

"Daddy —" 

"I'll take care of my boy," he says, and then Porthos is watching Daddy's hands fumbling with his mum's wrap-dress — 

Fumbling *horribly* — 

While she giggles and snorts and *swats* him — 

("You could *help*!" 

"This is much more fun!") 

It seems to take forever to bare one heavy, leaking breast — there were extra layers of fabric there to catch the flow of milk — but, after that... 

She stops swatting him. 

She stops *hindering* him. 

She looks up at him with wide, dark eyes — 

("Amina-love...?" 

"Do you... still... do you *want* —") 

And Daddy growls and dives in, lapping and lapping at her breast — 

("Oh — *oh* —") 

Moaning and growling more — 

*Slurping* up the droplets of early milk that the witches had induced — in part to help bind Treville to her — 

So sweet — 

So warm and *rich* — 

She whimpers and pushes her hands into his hair — 

He holds himself up *carefully* above her and *laps* — 

*Drags* his tongue — no. 

He lengthens it slightly, flattens it just so — 

She cries *out* for him, and it's so — it's — 

("Do you like it? Is it — can I —" 

"Show me what you *want*!") 

And, for a moment, Daddy's memories belong to another Treville entirely — 

Daddy's memories take him back to Laurent's tent when he was a fifteen-year-old recruit, when he had finally *managed* to convince Laurent to do it, to touch him — 

But Laurent had seemed almost stuck above him, paused, *not* touching — 

Staring at him *desperately* — 

("You must tell me what you want me to *do*, little brother!"

"What you want! What you *want*, *please*!") 

And Treville hadn't known how to say 'please just prove to me that this isn't another one of my fantasies', but maybe Laurent had seen it in his eyes, or felt it, or *sensed* it in some other *way* — 

Because nothing else that night was what that other Treville had expected, except in terms of expecting the *unexpected* from his odd brother and protector and unofficial — Treville had still technically been a *recruit* — commanding officer. 

This — 

This desire of Amina's — 

It's his own. It's the proof that she'd dreamed of him even while he was dreaming of her — and before. 

It's the proof that they *are* siblings, closer than the blood — and other things — the witches had had them share. 

This *need* is *theirs*, and he thinks he might be saying it as he tears at her clothes more competently than he probably ever will again, as he laps at the *sweat* under her breasts — 

("Ah —") 

As he wraps his tongue round her popped-out little belly-button and tickles and soothes, tickles and *soothes* — 

("T-*Treville* —") 

As he stops, for just a moment, and *cups* her big belly, strokes it with shaking hands, kisses it, licks, whispers to Porthos — 

("I'll always love you, son; we'll take care of you, we'll be right bloody *here* this time —" 

"Oh, be careful, be *careful*, my brother —" 

"I won't *let* —" 

"Hst!")

And they look at each other for long moments, Daddy panting and desperate and mum not much better — 

Both of them so — 

And then Porthos feels Daddy's prick throb — 

("I need you. I need — let me taste you." 

"Oh — shit — my brother, I *will* not say no!") 

But she laughs *nervously*, wrongly — 

No — 

("What's wrong, Amina-love? What — if you don't want me to do something — or if you want something else —" 

"I want *everything*! But — it's hard to *believe* that you want...") 

And Daddy growls — 

("Your scents are high in my nose —" 

"Oh —" 

"You're *rich*. *Strong* —" 

"No —" 

"Tangy and *sweet* — you *need* me.") 

And she shakes her head, *whines* — 

Daddy growls again and scoots *back* — 

Spreads her *legs* — 

She cries *out* — 

("Oh, look at you, so purple and dark and *slick*..." 

"*Treville* —" 

"I want to bury my muzzle in you for a *year*." 

"Your." 

"Hrr..." 

"Treville —" 

"Would the dog be more convincing, Amina-love?") 

And Daddy's voice is low, growled, half-*chewed* — 

("Oh — your — your *face* —" 

"I smell you even better this way. I *taste* you even better. I can all but *feel* your *softness* on my *tongue*." 

"You — you don't *like* —" 

"I've been dreaming of crawling up *your* skirts for a quarter-century. I remembered *exactly* how you tasted on the air, when you were pregnant, and when you weren't. I remembered... everything. Let me have you.") 

She makes a hurt sound, then — 

A needy and *hungry* sound — 

And Daddy growls low. 

("You're thinking it's too different from a boy. You're thinking I'll *flinch*. You're thinking I'll just *pretend* to like it." 

"*Please* —" 

"Let me... do something. Something that I shouldn't do, because I'm not *your* Treville —" 

"Wh-what? What do you want to do?" 

"Show you my thoughts. My feelings. Everything about me. I...") 

Daddy shakes — 

("If' I'm ever taken away from you, and your other Treville comes back entirely, as opposed to in the dribs and drabs he's with us now, he'll have to do it all over again —" 

"Do *what*?" 

"Take your blood, and have you take mine. Take — I *shouldn't* —" 

"But you want me to *feel* you, feel all of you — I was *wondering* why you didn't — why I didn't — why it felt just like some other *man*." 

"Oh, Amina-love —" 

"I should have *guessed* —" 

"You —" 

"*Do* it!") 

He bites open his forearm, dripping on her mound, her belly, her breasts before she sits up enough — 

("No, no, relax —" 

"I am not an *invalid* —" 

"You certainly won't be after this —") 

And she giggles and drinks, fearless and without a moment's hesitation, without a moment's *doubt* — 

She drinks and *grips* him with her strong, rough hands, keeping him close, lapping at every part of the wound with her thick, pointed human tongue — 

She gulps him *down*, and Daddy needs her, *needs* — 

("I want your mouth on every *part* of me!") 

She *looks* at him over his bleeding arm — and then reaches out to cup him through his trousers, hold him — 

*Squeeze* him the way she's never — 

*They've* never — 

Daddy groans and bucks, and he knows she's taking too much, but he can't imagine stopping her, yet, not yet, not — 

She squeezes again — 

Rubs and tests the shape and *heft* of his *bollocks* — 

("*Amina* —" ) 

And *then* she pulls back on her own — 

("It is *criminal* that you have been saving that for the boys for all this *time*, Jean-Armand...") 

But her eyes are wide, dazed — 

He can see her pulse pounding in her dark throat —

She's licking her lips again and again and *again* — 

("Please... please, I'm so — I need — my brother, I *need* —") 

And he can't wait, he can't, he — 

He *moves* back down the bed and bites her inner thigh, bites her shallowly enough that the scar will be negligible — 

She still cries out loud and scratches at his scalp, his face, his ears — 

He takes her blood as quickly as he can, as *thoroughly* as he can, savouring it the way he couldn't the first time. 

It was too strange, then; there were too many people around; he was too *human* to comprehend the richness, the power of her — 

So sweet, so metal, so *strong* — 

So full of *life* — hers and Porthos's — and he'll protect them always, keep them, keep them for *himself* — 

He *sucks* as he laps — 

She *shouts* — 

(Jean-Armand!) 

Oh — 

(Oh oh — you can — I can —) 

My sister, my love, *feel* me, he says, and he gives her everything, *everything*, all of himself — 

All of his desire and fear — 

All of his need and hunger — 

All of his *lust* and *love* — 

She spreads her legs *wider* — 

She's so much more *pink* inside, shocking and sweet, sweet, tangy and salt, and he's inside, licking *inside*, shoving his tongue *deep* — 

She *screams* — 

(I've never I've never never *felt*!) 

You'll feel it all the *time* now — 

(Your nose is so cold!) 

He growls into her — 

She *clenches* around him — 

He grips her by her thighs, holds her wide, *wide* — 

Keeps her *open* for him, and pulls *out* — 

("*Oh* —") 

And then licks her pleasure-button, licks it with his long, flat tongue fast and rough, lapping — 

She cries out — 

She cries out *high*, again and again — 

She tastes so *perfect*, just a little stronger up here than down in her cunt, a little saltier, a little tangier — 

He shifts his muzzle back to a more human configuration for long enough to lip and mouth and nuzzle at her pleasure-button — 

Suck it and kiss it, make *love* to it, have her every *way* he's *wanted* — 

He's supposed to *show* her — 

He's supposed to make her *see*, and her thighs are flexing in his arms, her cries are *choked*, her little button is *flexing* — 

Oh — 

He sucks it *again* — 

She *shrieks* — 

She shrieks *again* — 

And then she shudders and quakes, all over, moaning low and hungry and desperate and *lost* — 

Spending for him. 

Spending for *him*. 

He growls for that, licking up her juices nice and fast, nice and *neat*, before lengthening his muzzle again and licking back *in*. 

He knows women get tighter when they spend. He *knows*. He — 

He's had Reynard's stories, Kitos's — 

*He* wasn't that competent when he was a boy and doing this sort of thing regularly — 

She gasps — 

*Hoots* — 

("*Treville*!") 

He snickers *into* her, messily and obnoxiously — 

("Ooh — *ooh* — oh — you *bastard* — *oh* — *fuck* — kiss me more! Kiss me and kiss me!") 

He feels himself *flush* — 

He groans — 

("Oh, it's what you want? You want — oh, *brother* —") 

He kisses her *cunt*, kisses it and makes love to it, fucking her cunt with his tongue and kissing again, again and again, wet and messy, wet and *filthy*, *loud* — 

("AHN —") 

Oh, sister... 

(My — my *brother*!) 

Always yours, and the first time you called me that — 

(You called me sister *first* —) 

I felt it at the *heart* of me, at the *soul*, he says, and *sucks* a kiss — 

She *groans*, reaching for him with her hands, *her* soul — 

*Gripping* at him — 

At his hair, at absolutely *all* of him — 

Take me, yes *take* me — 

(Brother — *brother* —) 

Tell me what you *need*, he says, and sucks her, fucks her, *takes* — You taste so *fucking* good! 

(Do you — do you want my arse?) 

Is that... can you not take — 

(No! I — just thought... oh, *fuck*, brother, the way you *want* me!) 

I'm your *dog* and your *knight*. I'll belong to you until the day you *die* — and forever after that! And he *snarls* at the thought, pushes it away, fucks her fast with his long tongue, fast, *fast* — 

She gurgles and *screams* — 

*Yanks* at his short hair — 

Flexes and *works* her powerful thighs in his arms — 

He holds her *tighter* — 

She gasps and *sobs* — 

(Fuck me! Please fuck me!) 

He *bucks* against the bed, flexing in his slick breeches and — wanting — 

(I am *certain*!) "I — just — help me roll onto my *side*!" And *this* yank on his hair is more purposeful. 

He groans — 

Groans *more* as he pulls back, pulls *out* — 

She *sobs* again — 

She's trying to roll over herself — 

It's *obvious* that the bed is too soft for her —

He'll make it better, he'll do everything to make it — 

("Wait, wait, let me — let me get some linens, I'll fold them — I'll be right back —" 

"*Hurry*!")

He *hurries*, grateful for yet another reason that his father hadn't raised him to be the sort of gentry who doesn't know how his own manor house is organized. 

He's back with the linens in minutes, but Amina is cursing a blue streak as the soft down frustrates her. 

("I know, I know, you're used to your pallet —" 

"This mountain of feathers is utterly fucking *ridiculous*!" 

"I —" 

"Shut it and help me!")

He uses the linens like wedges, edging her gently, gently onto her left side, which he remembers is the most comfortable for her for sleeping — 

("Oh — oh, Porthos, not *now*,") she says, laughing breathlessly, ruefully — and cupping her belly. 

He bends over her and kisses every kicked place, presses his mouth to them and rumbles, rumbles.... 

She moans — ("That feels so *good*!")

He nods and keeps it up, working a hand between her legs and cupping her sex — 

("Oh... rub... just...")

"Mm-hmm," he says, and then goes back to rumbling as he gently seeks for her pleasure-button — 

Finds it and thrills and rubs — 

She groans — 

He *sweats* — 

He drags his mouth to the next kicked place and rumbles, talks to his boy, his sweet, baby boy... 

Sleep, now...

Rest, now... 

(Oh, brother...) 

Daddy loves you always, sweet boy...

She sobs and flexes and wets down his hand, crying out in *shock* — 

Shaking and *bucking* — 

Shaking and crying out more and *more* — until she gasps again — 

*Sobs* again — 

Slumps and sweats and — 

Oh, Amina-love, that was — that was so — 

(I don't — I don't — oh, brother, don't stop, don't stop *anything*!) 

He doesn't. 

He *won't* — especially since Porthos's kicks are getting slower, more desultory — 

He rumbles and rumbles and *works* Amina's little button, keeping her slick, keeping her ready — 

("I have been ready for you for almost two *years*, you arsehole!")

And he almost loses his rhythm for that, almost — 

She giggles — 

She giggles and sighs and pets him — 

Sings and croons a wordless melody that threads through his rumbling, and he sees it, sees it all, the three of them in the nursery he'll build with his own two hands if he has to, or maybe he'll get some of the sappers to do it so it'll be sturdy — 

She giggles *more* — 

She gasps and *sighs* — 

He rubs and rumbles and — 

Porthos doesn't kick — 

And Porthos doesn't kick — 

And — 

(Now now oh please NOW!) 

God — he opens his laces quickly, quickly, *shoving* his trousers and breeches down and out of the way — 

(Please please —) 

He lifts her leg — 

(Oh, *please* —) 

Oh, Amina-love, Amina-love, you're so wet on me, so — so *hot* — 

(PLEASE!) 

And he lifts her leg higher, pushes in — *in* — 

(BROTHER —) 

Tell me, *tell* me — 

("Big — you're so *big* —" 

"Nnh — do you *like* —" 

"Who *doesn't*, you idiot?")

And they gasp laughter together, so — 

So good, so *good* as he pushes deeper, *rocks* in — 

("Ah — *ahn* —" 

"Amina —" 

"Do *you* like —" 

"You're — a *fist* around me —" 

"I think — I think you will find that it is a cunt —") 

He laughs harder, needier — 

She *moans* laughter, *rocks* on him so — 

So *hard* — 

("Oh, *Amina*, so much — so *much*?" 

"The babe can *take* it!"

"Oh — he's strong, he grows up so strong and beautiful and wise and perfect, you'll *see* —") 

She shouts in *joy* — 

("He — he has everything of *you* —" 

"He'll have both of us! He — I will raise him just like *you*!"

"We — we'll have to make sure the kitchen boys are nimble, then —") 

She splutters and *clenches* — 

Reaches back to swat him — but then pauses for just a moment before clawing his *arse* — 

He grunts helplessly and *thrusts* — 

("Oh, *yes*!" 

"*Amina* —" 

"*Do* it!") 

He growls and gives it to her, just gives it to her, she's so *wet* —! 

So slick and ready for him, clenching and — 

Oh, so — 

He holds her belly *tight*, *supports* her, buries his face in her throat and growls — 

("Bite, oh, bite, bite me *again*!") 

He does, he has to, he *has* to, and her flavours are different now, just different enough, just — 

They're just that much more *kin* — 

They *belong* to each other — 

He holds her and sucks, licks, laps, *moans*, *fucks* — 

She bucks and *rides* him — 

She clenches up *tight* — 

He groans and *pants*, bucks up *hard*, *hard* — 

("My brother, my *brother*!" 

"I *love* you —" 

"I am *yours*!") 

He *barks* — 

("*Fuck* — *Treville* —" 

"Sorry — s-sorry —" 

"No! Do it! Do — be — give me *all* of you!" 

"Ah, *fuck* —") 

And he fucks her faster, just — *faster*, holding back as much of his force as he can and licking her all over, *having* her — 

("Oh, *God* — brother, I can feel your *strain* —" 

"I can't *hurt* you —" 

"You must *fuck* me!" 

"My *sister*, shit, you — you're driving me — don't let me — don't let me *hurt* —" 

"*Harder*!") 

He snarls and *bites* her again — 

She *screams* — 

She digs her fingernails in against the meat of his arse and holds him, *urges* him, *pulls* him — 

("Jean-*Armand*!") 

And there's no resisting that, no holding *back*. He *grips* the back of her neck in his teeth and *rails* her — 

("Ah — ah — *AHN* — oh — oh, *fuck* — *UNGH* —") 

And he's flushing for that, growling and flushing and — 

He can't — 

He can't *bloody* stop, he just has to hold her, keep her, show her how much he *needs* her — 

("*Please*, brother!") 

Always, *always*, and he — 

Oh, it's what he's been waiting for, what he'd never *stopped* waiting for even though he'd lost her a *generation* ago. This — 

This *completion* — 

She sobs — 

She *groans* — 

She groans again and again, constant and *loud* as he *pounds* her, as he *gives* himself to her, everything — 

Everything he *is*, and he shows her the weeks and months and years haunting the edges of the Court and looking for any *sign* — 

He shows her the desolation of that empty, death-stinking tenement room with the child's drawings on the walls and the body on the floor — 

He shows her his *grief*, his emptiness, and the march of *years* — 

The *scour* of *loneliness* — 

She sobs again and grips him tighter, *growls* — ("I will *never* let you go, brother!") 

And they're moving the bed with their rutting, working together, *moving* together, *needing* — 

She clenches *hard* — 

He howls and *shoves* in — 

("*YES*!") 

He does it again — 

Again and *again*, and she's quivering against him, clawing him *bloody* — 

Their scents are *everything*, twined, so *beautiful* — 

He bites her *again* — 

She *howls* — and he goes rigid and *spurts*, just like that, just — 

("No, don't *stop*!") 

And that's enough to make him snarl and *fuck* his way through his own spend, snarl and rock, shove, ragged and *needy* — 

She drags his hand from her belly to her pleasure-button — 

He *presses* because he's not *capable* of anything else right — 

She *screams* — 

Bucks *violently* — 

And then she's screaming and sobbing harshly while she shakes, claws at the back of his *hand*, *spends* again — 

He groans and keeps fucking her, keeps — 

Everything is so right — 

Everything is so — 

And maybe the next babe will be *theirs* — 

She gasps — 

She screams like a *wildcat* — 

(Oh, my BROTHER!) 

I *love* you! 

(I love you, I love you, I —) 

She clenches and screams *again*, short and *quiet*, this time, shuddering all *over* — 

His cock *aches* in every best *way* — 

And, when she slumps, he knows he can — at the very least — start to slow down. 

She giggles breathlessly for that — 

(I will think about it.) 

You do that, he says, and eases his slick hand out from between her legs, bringing it up to his mouth — 

She grabs it and sucks his fingers — 

("I was going to —"

"Mm-mm." 

"I don't get to have those?" 

"Mm-mm.")

She slurps — 

Sucks them *deep* — 

His cock *spasms* — 

("Mmmm..." 

"Oh — shit, Amina...") 

She laughs *evilly* around the fingers in her mouth. 

("*Can* you go again? I mean — can I —" 

"*Mm* —") She tugs his fingers *out* — ("Oh, God, *no*, brother —" 

"Fuck — I mean — that's all right!") 

She splutters — 

("I mean — I'm not — I won't —" 

"Make it *good* now..." 

"Oh, fuck, Amina-love, they made me a *dog*. What do you *expect*?") 

She snickers hard for long moments — and then hums. 

("You did not tie me, brother..." 

"No, I — I thought — I thought I shouldn't —" 

"It's true that it sometimes seems like I have to use the chamberpot every five *minutes* these days, but — you have so much *control* over that!") 

He laughs softly — 

("I'm older than I look..." 

"I keep forgetting. I keep... oh, brother. You're so much *like* — have I just *cheated* on my dear love?" 

"Have I just cheated on mine?" 

"She is *dead* —" 

"That doesn't matter. That *never* matters.") 

She inhales sharply — and nods. 

("My brother. My *traveling* brother. Help me turn over onto my back?" 

"Of course.") 

There's a satisfaction to adjusting the piles of linens just right, to getting her right hip canted just a little, to getting that massive, wonderful belly supported — 

("I have to piss.") 

To getting the whole structure taken down at *organized* speed so he can lift her up and *out* — 

("Oh, fuck, give me blankets and a pillow on the *floor*, brother!" 

"I —" 

"Do it!" 

"Until we can build you a better bed, then, yes.") 

She gives him something of a basilisk stare while she squats. 

He raises his hands in surrender. 

The stare gets harder. 

("I... love you?"

"You'd better!") 

And then she snickers hard. 

("Ah, fuck, brother, a part of me wants to whisper to the rest that if you *truly* loved me, you *would* have knotted me." 

"I — but —"

"Hand me a linen — thank you — oh, so soft —" 

"I'm glad you like — and *Amina*, it's not that I would *mind* you pissing all over me — me being a dog and all —") 

She splutters *more* — 

("But."

"Yes, *but*. Tell me you want to tie me the way you *undoubtedly* tie the pretty noblewoman." 

"You know *I* find that impossible to think about, right? I never *touched* her on my sphere."

"And you never *wanted* to?") 

And that... 

("Mm. I *thought* so,") she says, and stands with easy, muscular power. And then plants her hands on her hips. 

("All right. I did think about it, and I did think about knotting her, but I thought about *you* every single *day* —" 

"Oh —" 

"And I tossed myself off to the *idea* of knotting you even when it made me *weep* with *loss*." 

"Oh — brother — I'm *sorry*. I do not mean to be *flippant* —" 

"No, no,") he says and crosses the room to take her in his arms from the back, to hold her and lick her temples — ("Believe me when I say that it'll be an *icy* day in Hell before I get tired of you roasting me on a spit —" 

"You told me once..." 

"Mm?") 

He licks her again — 

Breathes in their mingled scents — 

Urges them back to the bed where he can build their linen foundations again — 

He curls in against her — 

Licks her new scars — 

Cups her belly — 

("You told me once that it was my laugh which first attracted you..." 

"It was as big as the *world*. I had to make you do it again and again —") 

She presses her fingertips to his lips. 

("Mm?" 

"Other girls have big laughs...") 

Ah. 

("They're not as smart as you, or as good at making *me* laugh as you, or as beautiful as you, or as good with their fists as you —" 

"This is something that attracts — no, what am I saying; keep going." 

"They're not as good with a *knife* as you. They're not as open-*minded* as you. They're not as wild inside as you, as...") 

And this is something he has to think about for a moment, something...

But then, it really isn't. 

("This isn't my home, Amina-love." 

"What? What do you — no. Your home is with your *brothers*. *Wherever* your brothers are." 

"That's *right*. And, in truth, one day I'm going to *have* to make this my home, and live the settled life — Laurent is *going* to make me his successor, and that's going to be *hellish* —" 

"My poor little ragamuffin..." 

"You know how that *works*, Amina-love. I — I could take you anywhere. Couldn't I.") 

And she looks at him for that, eyes wide and hungry and — wild. 

("Yes. *Yes*, my brother —" 

"Sister. Your home is with *your* loves, just like my home is mine. You're not tied-*down* — or you don't have to be." 

"I... I've thought about... wanting to be." 

"But *do* you want to be?") 

She smiles ruefully. 

("I do not know. Ask me after you've given me six fat babes to run me *ragged*.") 

And that — Treville *growls*, and he *knows* he's glowing — 

("Oh —") 

She yawns, wide and obviously shocked by it —

("*Shit* — I'm sorry —"

"Shh, no, rest. We'll talk more later." 

"Yes?" 

"We'll talk about everything. I'll *tell* you everything.") 

She grins then. 

("You always do.")

He strokes her cheek with his fingertips —

She kisses them — 

She closes her eyes — 

They twine their fingers together on her belly. 

He'll leave the candles burning for a time. 

He'll watch over her.

Porthos becomes aware of himself again slowly. 

It's not his hand on his mum's belly. 

It's not his mouth that tastes like her. 

It's not his prick that still *wants* — 

And then it's not very slow. 

He blinks and blinks and sucks in a *shuddering* breath — 

"Easy, son," Daddy says, and — he's right there, and he's dressed, and he's leaning *over* Porthos — 

Porthos is lying down — 

On a *bed* — 

"We got you inside and upstairs while you were still in your trance," Daddy says, smiling ruefully. "It was a bit too exciting getting you down off Yves. You'll have to be nice to him for the next little while." 

"I — we — we're in the manor? Your manor?" 

And *that's* when Aramis leans over from his other side and kisses his temple. "In one of Daddy's guest rooms, to be specific. There just happens to be two beds." 

"This is marvelously convenient," Athos says, presumably from the other bed.

"I'm definitely enjoying it — nnh — at the moment," d'Artagnan says, laughing breathlessly — 

"Your *skin* —" 

"Oh, Athos —" 

Porthos thinks of his mum's skin — 

Under his *tongue* — 

"Easy, son, it's all right." 

"It — fuck — *fuck*. You *warned* me, but I still —" 

Aramis kisses his temple. "You needed this thing. Now you must... digest it." 

"Sodding — *how*?" 

"Well," Athos says, "if it helps, I would say it's a fair bet that we're *all* sexually and romantically fixated on your mother now." 

Porthos *chokes* — 

"Yes, this is so," Aramis says. "Also, I would say, on pregnant women in general?" 

A moment of silence — 

And then a chorus of agreement. 

"Of course," Aramis says, "I must be honest. I have had this fixation before now. I, however, had never had the opportunity to *serve* it so *thoroughly* before." 

"Oh, God," Porthos says. "I mean — neither had I — but it was my *mum*. And — *me*." 

"I really liked it when the Captain was, you know, using his fingers," d'Artagnan volunteers. 

"Mm! Oh, yes," Aramis says — 

"And gently rumbling Porthos to sleep, d'Artagnan?" And Athos sounds honestly *curious*. 

"There was just something really *nice* about that," d'Artagnan says, and Porthos can't quite see him from this angle, but he can see from the shadows that he's sitting up against the headboard of the other bed.

Daddy laughs quietly. "I quite enjoyed it myself, boys." And then he leans in to lick Porthos's temples. "What do you need, son? What can I give you?" 

"I — fuck, Daddy, I feel like I should be asking *you* that question! You — we yanked you away from her after *that*?" 

Daddy smiles ruefully. "A part of me knew it wouldn't last. Couldn't last." 

Aramis takes a shuddering breath. "Because it was too perfect?" 

"That... and it felt too much like a dream. Like I wasn't tethered as strongly as I could've been..." And Daddy looks thoughtful. "I couldn't have told you — or *her* — this then, because it was barely even a feeling in my mind, but... the other Treville and I hadn't *fixed* our places in this sphere and the other one. We hadn't made *enough* changes. That was why he could work against the music of the spheres and take himself away and — perhaps inadvertently, perhaps not — bring *me* *back*.

"Perhaps if he'd tried a few hours later, after I'd had the chance to wake *up* with my Amina-love..." And Daddy hangs his head. "Or perhaps I'm simply unaccustomed to having what I want," he says, and smiles wryly before looking up again. 

Porthos growls and *grips* him — 

"Oh, son, don't — don't distract yourself from your own need with mine —" 

"I'm *not*. Our need's the *same* —" 

"You need your mother. I need my *lover* and *sister* —" 

"You *made* those the same, Daddy!" 

Daddy grunts and *jerks* back — but only for a moment before licking his lips and nodding slowly. 

Porthos nods back. "You've — *we've* — lost her twice now. We're both a sodding mess. I — what do we do?" 

Daddy smiles ruefully. "Survive. Survive *until* we can live the way she would've wanted us to." 

"That sounds about right, but at what point do we let ourselves *be* a mess?" 

And Daddy gives him *that* look. That — 

That 'be hard on me' look that's starting to not just *look* familiar, but *feel* familiar — 

*Taste* familiar —

Porthos sits up and cups the back of Daddy's neck. "Right now, Daddy. The answer is right bloody now." 

Daddy swallows. "And. How do we do that?" 

"We let our family — our *loves* — take care of us." 

"I have to —" 

"No. Not right now," Porthos says. "Just what you need. What *we* need." 

"And... you don't need me?" 

Porthos prick twitches in his *slick* breeches. "Yeah. Yeah, I do need you, Daddy." 

"Then —" 

"I just need you to take what you want. That more than anything else." 

Daddy growls, soft and brief. "Is that — an order?" 

And that — that was a request. Maybe even a plea. "Yeah, it was, Daddy. Take what you want. Take *exactly* what you want from me." 

"From *us*," Aramis says, sitting up and resting his cheek on Porthos's shoulder — and his hand on Daddy's chest. 

"You can have what you want," Athos says, low and insinuating and more than a little thrilled. He sounds just that way after a successful *mission*, and that just tells Porthos that they all need to give the man more experience with being *happy*.

"Yes — I'll help!" d'Artagnan calls, breathless and straining, *unmistakably* pumping into Athos's working fist — "And — and, sir — you can have everything you want with us. We've *felt* it —" 

"Not — not enough —" 

"Then give us more," Athos says. "And Porthos, do we need to give you this order, as well?" 

Porthos blinks — 

Pants — 

Daddy stares *into* him and licks his lips again — 

Aramis *cups* his cock — 

And Porthos laughs hungrily. "No. No, you really don't," he says, and pulls Daddy in for a kiss.

A deep kiss, a *wet* kiss, just like — 

His first thought is that he should be able to taste *her*, his *mum* —

His next thought is that his *Daddy* should — 

His *next* thought is that loss is wrong, death is wrong, it's all wrong, and they last too bloody long, besides — 

And then Daddy's hands are in his hair, gripping him *tight* — 

Then Aramis is pressed against his back and kissing his throat and shoulders — 

Opening his trousers and breeches with deft, easy speed — 

Porthos *groans* — 

And Daddy growls and kisses him *hard*, knocking him *and* Aramis *back* — 

"*Mm* —" 

"Oh, yes, Daddy, yes —" 

Daddy *grips* Porthos's hair and kisses him so *viciously*, so *hungrily*, so — 

Daddy, fuck, Daddy, *when* did you want me? 

(The moment you walked into my office.) 

Porthos grunts and *flexes* in Aramis's *fist* — 

(The moment I saw you, truly —) 

Daddy — 

(I knew who you *were*, son. I knew *exactly* who you were — and that I'd been given a second chance.) And then Daddy pulls back and bites Porthos's jaw — 

Growls again — 

Aramis *strokes* Porthos's cock — 

"Were you stopped, at all, in your desires by his identity, sir?" And Athos sounds only curious, only *hungry* for more of all of them — 

He — 

(I am,) Athos says, and the shadows say he's moving — 

That *both* he and d'Artagnan are moving — 

*Undressing* — 

Daddy growls more and bites Porthos's throat — 

They *all* remember the taste of Porthos's mum's throat then, the springiness of it, the way the skin had pulled taut when she'd thrown her head back — 

"Your mother is very beautiful, my Master. I *long* to fuck her myself —" 

Porthos grunts and *bucks* into Aramis's fist even as a part of him *recoils* — 

Aramis inhales sharply — 

Porthos can feel everyone *else* pause, too — 

"That is a no, my Master? I will not —" 

"I don't — I don't — know..." 

"Perhaps you simply haven't digested *enough*, yet," Daddy says, and licks a path from Porthos's jaw to his ear, right through the *beard* — 

"Please —" 

Licks his *ear* — "I hated myself for being hard for my Porthos, my boy, my beautiful —" 

"Oh — fuck — *no* —" 

Daddy kisses his ear. "But you understand why, don't you? You were the son of my heart before I lost you — and the son by blood of the woman I loved most in this world. My *sister*. The bride I was never allowed to *take*." 

Porthos shudders — "But we were more than that to each other, too. Weren't we?" And he turns to look at Daddy, to study him — "You shared — all *kinds* of things with my mum while I was still *inside* her. Doesn't that mean you shared them with me, too?" 

"I didn't think it through to that point when I was a twenty-three-year-old pillock looking to find ways to *redeem* myself — and protect my Amina-love *effectively*, while I was at it — but... yes." 

"Then —" 

"I *did* think it through after you came back to me, obviously," Daddy says, and yanks Porthos's hair harder — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Do you like that, son? Do you like it when I'm rough with you?" 

Porthos moans, fighting back the urge to tell him to just do anything, to just — 

No. 

Real answers, real *honesty* — "I want — I want you to touch me other places, more —" 

Daddy growls. "I want to touch you *everywhere*. I want to *lick* you — tell me where you want my hands, son. Tell me right now." 

"Fuck, fuck, Daddy, I thought you wanted *my* orders?" 

"I want to *devour* you even more. I want — I want to make you *need* me —" 

"I —" 

"I *need* to make you need me!" 

"*Fuck* — I *do* —" 

"For *this*. Now tell me how to *touch* you." 

And Aramis's soft lips and soft brush of a beard are nuzzled against his throat —

And d'Artagnan is climbing on the bed behind Daddy — 

And Athos is climbing on the bed behind and beside Aramis — 

And Porthos can't — 

He can't think of anything but being spread out on his back and touched, just touched, just — 

Until he can't *think* —

d'Artagnan gasps — 

And Daddy grins. "That can be arranged, son. Can't it, boys." 

And Aramis's hands are suddenly *hard* on Porthos's shoulders — "Oh, yes," he says, and *yanks* Porthos down onto his back — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"My Master must be served exactly how he wishes," Aramis says, and his eyes are hungry, hard, *wanting* — 

Somehow wanting — 

"Not 'somehow', my Master. I told you — I want everything of you. I *crave* it," Aramis says, and *shoves* Porthos's shirt up to bunch in his armpits — 

"As do I," Athos says, and immediately leans in to drag his mouth over and over and *over* Porthos's nipple — 

"Nnh — shit — *shit* —" 

"His scars, my Master?" 

"Yeah — fuck — we talked about — I told him I *wanted* —" 

"Oh, yes...?" 

And Athos shares the memory of the conversation as he *suckles* — 

As Porthos *groans* — 

As Daddy pulls Porthos's trousers and breeches down and down and — 

"Ah," Aramis says, and strokes *Porthos's* mouth with his thumb. "I would need to know my Master desired me, too." 

"Always — fuck —" 

And that's d'Artagnan on his other nipple, licking and *nibbling* — 

"I would need to know my Master needed *my* touch in *particular*," Aramis says, and starts stripping *himself* — 

"I do — I sodding —" 

"Hips *up*, son," Daddy says, and Porthos obeys without thinking, without — 

And then there are two pillows shoved up under his arse, and he's — 

Canted up and available, ready, so — 

"My boy needs to be touched," Daddy says, and looks into his eyes from between his spread legs, looks so *hungry* — 

He's licking his *lips* — 

Porthos's hole clenches *hard* — 

"Say *yes*, son." 

"*Fuck* — *Daddy* —" 

"Say yes and I *promise* to *help* your brothers drive you out of your *head*." 

Porthos moans and spreads his legs wider, just — 

Just offers — 

He doesn't know how to get the 'yes' out of his *throat* for this — 

Daddy growls — "That's more than good enough, son. That's — oh, *son*," he says, scratching Porthos's inner thighs *hard* — 

Athos and d'Artagnan keep *suckling* — 

Keep rubbing and *petting* at his chest and belly — 

Plucking at the *hair* — 

Porthos groans — 

Tosses his *head* — 

Daddy licks his lips again, and doesn't look *away* from Porthos before saying: "Don't you think you should stop his mouth up tight, now, Aramis...?" 

Porthos *grunts*, prick twitching hard — 

Spattering — 

He *must* be spattering Athos and d'Artagnan — 

(You are,) Athos says, swiping up slick from Porthos's belly and shoving his fingers into his mouth without moving it — 

Slurping and *moaning* against Porthos's chest — 

d'Artagnan does the same — 

Hums and *licks* — 

They're both moving to make *room* for Aramis, who *straddles* Porthos, tucking his knees in against Porthos's armpits and presumably getting his legs under Athos and d'Artagnan — 

(We won't let him get far!) d'Artagnan calls cheerfully — 

"My Daddy... he is well with not seeing his Porthos's face...?" 

"Your Daddy plans to be far too occupied to worry about Porthos's *face*," Daddy says, and claws Porthos's thighs again — 

*Again* — 

Porthos shudders and arches up off the pillows — 

"*Down*, son." 

Porthos *drops* — 

"Good boy. Good son. You — you'll let your family have what *they* want of you —" 

"What — this — this is what *I* want," Porthos says, and he's staring up into Aramis's dark eyes, his *staring*, *hungry* — 

"You'll give us what we *need*," Daddy says, and those strong hands are on him, holding him, *gripping* — 

His breath is so *hot* on Porthos's *hole* — 

d'Artagnan *bites* Porthos's nipple — 

Porthos shouts — 

Aramis starts feeding him his long, perfect, *pretty* cock — 

Porthos grunts and moans and flushes and *sucks*, just *sucks* — 

(You'll give us what we need, son. And that's you. That's absolutely every bit of you,) Daddy says, and he's *lapping* at Porthos's cleft, every — 

Oh, all *along* it, and it's hard not to gulp, not to just swallow right away — 

"It's — it's what my Master wants?" And Aramis pants, licks his teeth — "He must *take*," he says, and pushes *deep* — 

"Mmngh —" And Porthos swallows him down, *down* — 

Takes him *all* — 

Just — 

(Good boy,) Daddy says, and *sucks* his bollocks in — 

The whole sac into his *mouth* — 

Porthos groans in his chest — 

Chokes on it when d'Artagnan — he'd know those long fingers *anywhere* — starts squeezing and *working* his prick — 

"No, no, my Master, you must *take* what you want," Aramis says, and fucks *in* again — 

Porthos arches and — 

And *writhes* — 

*Sucks* — 

He's so hot, he's sweating, he's — 

He's covered in *gooseflesh*, but he's still *sweating* — 

Daddy *sucks* his bollocks — 

Porthos wants to *shout* around Aramis's prick — 

Aramis pants and pulls *out* so he can — 

He — 

Daddy sucks hard *again* — 

Porthos *shouts* — and realizes that what he wants, even more, is not to be able to do anything but take it, take all of it, take everything his family is *giving* him — 

Aramis growls and *shoves* in — 

Daddy releases his bollocks and shoves into Porthos's hole with his tongue, his long and lengthening *tongue* — 

Porthos groans and groans and — 

And Athos and d'Artagnan are nipping and *worrying* at his nipples, *sharing* his prick between them, squeezing and stroking and *loving* it, loving it the way Porthos is loving everything — 

He wants — 

He *wants* — 

And Porthos is shaking, trembling all over, *weak* for this — 

(*Never* weak! My boy is never *weak*!) 

Daddy — *Daddy* — 

(My boy's needs have gone *unanswered*,) Daddy says, and *whips* his tongue inside Porthos — 

Porthos screams *inside*, *inside* — 

He can feel d'Artagnan *shaking* against him — 

Aramis is dripping sweat and fucking him, *fucking* him — 

Porthos suckles, reaches — 

Aramis bends down and holds his *arms* down — 

Porthos's prick *spasms* in Athos's and d'Artagnan's hands — 

(My boy has gone *hungry*,) Daddy says, and starts to fuck him, starts to just — 

Just *take* him — 

So deep — 

So growling and deep — 

Daddy! 

(I'm yours, son. You *will* use me in every way I'm fit to be used.) 

And Porthos shudders harder, gulps and swallows and swallows — 

"Is my Master swallowing Daddy's cock in his mind?" 

Both — all — I *need* — 

Aramis *pants* — "Then I will *hurry*," he says, and starts to fuck Porthos fast, *hard* — 

Porthos shudders in *place* — 

Needs — 

Please, Daddy, hold my *hips*! 

Daddy *snarls* into him — 

Porthos clenches and spasms *again* — 

d'Artagnan sucks his nipple *hard* while he moans, while he and Athos *pump* Porthos's prick — 

And Daddy wraps his arms round Porthos's thighs, instead, holds him, holds him spread, holds him *steady* — 

Holds him like he'd held — 

But then Daddy *whips* that tongue again, wriggles it while he's *growling*, and Porthos can't think, can't — 

He's shaking so *much*, and Aramis is panting and — 

"Fuck — *fuck* — fuck, my Master, I love you, I have always *loved* you," Aramis says, and he's squeezing Porthos's wrists so hard, so *tight* — 

He's ramming *in* — 

He's making Porthos's throat feel so *used* — 

So perfect and *used* — 

And then Daddy *kisses* his hole, kisses and fucks and *sucks*, and a part of him wants to insist that it's the same, it's the bloody *same*, but — 

d'Artagnan scrapes his *teeth* over Porthos's nipple and Athos drags his scars, his perfect fucking *scars* — 

(I did, in fact, get them because I was showing off for our father...) 

And Daddy growls like the imminent deaths of a *legion* —

Right up Porthos's *arse* — 

Porthos shudders and groans and tries and *fails* to buck — 

Daddy's got him too tight, too hard, too — 

And *Aramis* growls and *sobs*, shoving in and in and — 

Porthos swallows around him, swallows tight and — 

Aramis *screams*, *slamming* in — 

Tensing up tight and strong and sodding *gorgeous* — 

(*Yours*,) he says, and starts to spend, even as he shouts out ragged cries, even as he spasms and *jerks* in Porthos's mouth — 

His throat — 

His mouth again, and Porthos sucks as hard as he *can* — 

Aramis *screams* — 

(Whose turn will it be next, son...?) 

*Fuck* — 

(Or do we get to choose...?) 

And just the thought of that makes him harder, makes him ache, makes him lose the ability to swallow properly — 

He coughs a little — 

Spatters Aramis's prick and mound with spend — 

"Oh — oh — my *Master* —" 

And he's still fucking *in*, still — 

Porthos swallows and *takes*, takes it *all* — 

(So be it,) Athos says. (We'll choose for him.) 

d'Artagnan shudders against him — (I want — I want — this. Sometime.) 

(You'll *have* it,) Athos says, and they're squeezing his prick even harder, they're — 

And then Athos — it *must* be Athos — starts guiding the stroke to make it Porthos's, to make it the one Porthos had used in *front* of Athos countless sodding *times* — 

(I remember every *fillip*.) 

Porthos *groans* — loudly out into the *air* when Aramis pulls out — 

"My Master must show his Aramis this!" And Aramis moves out of the straddle, turns round a little awkwardly — 

"Please — please give me something for my —" *Mouth*, Porthos was going to say, but Athos's fingers are right there, blunt and callused, warm and salty, flavoured with *prick* — 

*d'Artagnan's* prick — 

Porthos grunts and sucks *hard*, licks and needs, imagines taking d'Artagnan's prick just like this, showing him how much he loves him, how much *he* needs his little brother — 

"Oh, *God* —" 

And that was slurred around Porthos's swollen, *aching* nipple — 

"My Master needs to ache from time to time, does he not?" And Aramis pushes one hand into Porthos's hair — 

Yanks tight — 

Porthos groans around Athos's fingers, licks between them — 

(Answer your pet,) Daddy says, and *sucks* a hard kiss to his hole — 

Makes him need to buck again — 

He can't get *anywhere* — 

The tremors are running through him *constantly* — 

The ache is — 

Is — 

What he needs. What he needs more than anything else right now, more than — 

"Oh, my Master..." 

(Good *boy*,) Daddy says, and sucks hard, *hard*, fucks him *faster* — 

(We all need just *this*,) Athos says, and he and d'Artagnan toss him off so brutally, so — 

Perfectly — 

Porthos is *slick* with sweat — 

Needy and loud and so *ready* — 

And then d'Artagnan *grips* his bollocks with his other hand, squeezing them *violently* — 

Porthos's vision goes utterly *blank* — 

(You don't need to see, son. You just need to spend.) 

He does — 

He *does*, and he's moaning, desperate, *straining* to buck even as he spurts and spurts and *spurts* — 

Even as he spasms and *jerks* in his brothers' hands — 

"My Master is *generous* with his loves..." 

*Fuck* — 

And Aramis is laughing filthily even as he grips Porthos's hair tighter, yanks on it, holds his *head* down by it — 

Porthos is shaking and losing important parts of his *mind** — 

(You'll lose all of it by the time we're done with you,) Daddy says, and makes *love* to Porthos's quivering hole, lipping and nuzzling so *wetly* — 

Porthos wants to slump and writhe at *once* — 

(I — I have to *taste*,) d'Artagnan says, moving away from Porthos's nipple to lick and slurp at his belly, instead — 

(I think we can all understand that,) Athos says, but doesn't move away from Porthos's *huge*-feeling nipple. Instead, he swipes up spend and smears it *on* the nipple — 

Laps — 

*Laps* — 

Porthos shudders and takes it.

And waits for what's next.


	14. Ending One, Part Five: Lust need not be lonely.

Athos can feel Aramis's attention in — multiple ways, now. It's utterly impossible to ignore, even assuming he wanted to. 

He absolutely doesn't. 

He looks up from Porthos's messy chest into those *wildly* focused and *hungry* amber-brown eyes — 

"Perhaps... perhaps my brother Athos will share with me?" 

And Athos can feel his cautiousness, his sense that, for all of his teasing and *pretending* to absolute confidence, Athos will somehow have the ability to reject him — 

*Him* — 

Athos growls and swipes up more spend from Porthos's belly with his free hand — 

Neither of his hands feel *quite* free with a Porthos he's free to *touch* — 

(This is understandable...) And Aramis's eyes are wide, soft, rueful — and wild again as soon as Athos's messy fingers are close to his lips — 

"Will you taste?" 

Aramis's lashes *flutter* — 

He lunges to *suck* — 

And Porthos's cock jerks as he watches, as he almost *studies* Aramis sucking Athos's fingers — 

He's wanted this. 

He's — 

Abruptly, Athos *knows* that with absolute surety, absolute *completion* — 

He moans — 

He fucks *both* their mouths with his fingers — 

And d'Artagnan slurps his way *up* off Porthos's belly. "Athos. Athos... which of us will have Porthos's mouth next?" 

And Porthos wants them to choose, *needs* them to choose — 

Porthos has *given* himself to them — 

(I would do this thing...) And Aramis takes Athos's fingers in to the second knuckle — 

"But?" 

(There are no buts,) Aramis says, and his lashes are fluttering. (Let *me* have my beautiful Master's torso, let *me* serve him that way —) 

Treville *growls*, low and harsh even with the necessary *muffling* — 

Porthos winces with lust, strains and *twitches* — he will not grow soft — 

(I need — I need... more...) 

"You'll get it," Athos says — 

"We — we won't *stop*," d'Artagnan says, wiping his face with the back of his hand — 

(And I won't leave my post, boys,) Daddy says, and does his *own* slurping — 

Porthos *sobs* around Athos's fingers — 

Aramis *nibbles* Athos's fingers — 

(Decide quickly who has Porthos's mouth this time. He is not to be allowed to think.) 

Aramis pulls back with a wet pop — "*Athos*." 

Athos *grunts* —

Aramis *smiles* at him, sharp and wet at *once* — "Please him with your cock. *Please* him." 

"I —" Athos growls and pulls Aramis in for a *hard* kiss, wanting more immediately, wanting wetter, harder — 

Aramis *gives* it to him, licking and mouthing and humming — 

Sucking Athos's *tongue* — 

d'Artagnan *moans* — 

But then Aramis pushes Athos back with a *teasing* laugh — "It's not our *turn*." 

Athos pants and *blinks* — and then turns to Porthos, who is groaning and shaking, sucking Athos's fingers so *messily* — 

"Mm, yes, you can imagine that on your cock...?" 

"Yes. *Yes*," Athos says, and pulls his fingers out — 

"Fuck, *please* —" 

"Yes, Porthos, I — *yes*," Athos says, and moves into position, feeling awkward and slow and ridiculous right up until his cock is on Porthos's *lip* — 

Right up until Porthos is staring *up* at him — 

His eyes are so *black* — 

Athos *winces* — "*Brother*," he says, and he can't say anything else before he's pushing in, pushing *in*, all the way, no waiting, no *waiting*, and he can recognize that not all of the urgency is his own, but that just makes it better, warmer, sweeter — 

Lust had always been so *lonely* before — 

(No *longer*,) Aramis says, leaning in to kiss where Porthos is sucking him — 

To kiss Athos's *cock* — 

To — 

But Athos wants — 

He grabs Aramis's *hair* — 

(Grind me *in*!) 

He does just that, and it's — 

It's — 

Two mouths on him whenever Athos pulls out sufficiently, then one when he thrusts *in* — 

And Porthos *gulps* — 

Then two *again* — 

And Aramis *hums* — 

And d'Artagnan is right there — 

Looking over Athos's *shoulder* — "That's so *hot*, fuck — we have to do this all the bloody *time*." 

Athos nods — he can't *talk*, he can't — 

Aramis's hair is *tangling* around his fingers, and Athos is pulling him *back*, forcing the man to *strain* — 

(I *love* it...) 

Athos *grunts* again, *bucks* — 

Aramis turns and licks the crease of his *thigh* — 

Athos *pants* — 

Wants — 

But Aramis is already gripping his balls, already squeezing, *squeezing* — 

Kissing the corner of Porthos's mouth — 

Porthos is groaning and *writhing* — 

Straining, as *well* — 

He's so — 

Athos had never imagined him *wanting* something like this — 

Never imagined his *own* fantasies of all but *attacking* Porthos's massive, beautiful body — every *inch* of it — as being anything remotely desirable to *Porthos* — 

(*PLEASE*,) Porthos says, and it sounds — *feels* — like he'd struggled to get that out, like words have become difficult even deep inside him — 

He's groaning so *loudly* around Athos's cock — 

He's shaking so *hard* — 

"I can't — fuck — I can't *wait*," d'Artagnan says, and moves back again — 

There are kissing sounds, wet and *hungry* — 

d'Artagnan moans and mutters something about *salt* — 

Porthos *arches* beneath Athos, so strong, so — 

Athos wants to force him *down* — 

Porthos's eyes roll back in his *head* — 

And Athos — can't — 

He can't — 

He's too hard to pull out anymore, too — 

He can't give Aramis what *he* wants — 

(All is well. I will help young d'Artagnan with his tasks...) 

(Are you boys planning to suck my Porthos's cock at the same time...?) And Treville sounds impressed, thrilled, *hungry* — 

"Oh, *fuck*," d'Artagnan slurs — 

And *gulps* — 

"So *greedy*," Aramis says — 

(I'm sorry! It's just — my throat was *empty*,) d'Artagnan groans and — 

And shares — 

And now Athos's throat is full, full and held *open* with Porthos's thick cock — 

Aramis groans — 

Treville *grunts* — (That's perfect, d'Artagnan, keep — keep *sharing*...) 

Athos swallows and swallows and — 

He's helpless, *thrusting* — 

He feels like — 

A part of him can only remember the afternoon when he and 'Anne' had curled into each other like puppies, nosed at each other's groins until they had all but *devoured* — 

(No,) Treville says, and now he's kissing Porthos's hole, tasting the most intimate, dirty part of him — 

His salt and sweat and *musk* — 

Treville's own *saliva* — 

He's — 

He's *been* there for a while, and his tongue reaches far, but he always wants farther, better, more — 

Always wants to *take* everything — 

Absolutely — 

He/they *suck* — 

Porthos *groans* — 

And Athos is in his own body, *shaking* as Porthos's throat vibrates around his cock, shaking as he thrusts *in* — 

And then *Aramis* shares — 

Sweat — 

The tickle of *hair* — 

Porthos's *balls* in his *mouth*, and he's moaning for it, taking them, sucking them hard enough to hurt his sore mouth — 

And d'Artagnan shares the feel of *swallowing* around Porthos's massive — 

So *thick* — 

And Porthos is reaching for them, reaching for all of them, but it feels less conscious than desperate, less meant than *desired* — 

He *needs* them — 

Porthos's mind is all imagery, flashes of colours and *lust* — 

He wants them *all*, and he wants them all to *have* him, just like this and in every other *way* — 

He wants them to know that he feels used, open, needy, *perfect* — 

He wants them to know that he needs to be *fucked* —

Treville growls like a *punch* — 

Growls again, and it gets louder, less muffled — 

He's pulling *out* — 

Athos can't *imagine* — 

His cock aches just thinking — 

"If you boys will excuse me for just a moment," he says. "Aramis, why don't you pick up where I left off?" 

Aramis pulls off with a — a *wonderfully* *filthy* slurp — "*Yes*, Daddy," he says, and Athos wishes he'd positioned himself another way, wishes he could *see* — 

And then d'Artagnan shows him Aramis moving into position, Aramis staring, mussed and *greedy*, at Porthos's *hole* — 

Athos *groans* — "Is he — is he *wet*." 

"So *very*," Aramis says. "Daddy has licked him *clean*." 

"*Fuck*," Athos says, and shoves *in* — 

Porthos *bucks* — 

d'Artagnan *coughs* — 

They'd all forgotten that Treville was *holding* Porthos — 

"I will do my *best*," Aramis says, locking his arms around Porthos's thighs — 

d'Artagnan rests half atop him — 

And they suck — 

And share — 

And Athos is drooling as he fucks Porthos's mouth, as he — 

As he stares down at that *dazed* face — 

As he shoves his fingers into Porthos's curls and pulls, massages his scalp, *touches* the way he's wanted to for so *long* — 

He has to — 

He *has* to, and Porthos is taking all of this, opening himself up and *shaking* again, groaning and having it made jagged, harsh, *messy* by Athos's own cock, Athos's own increasingly *brutal* fuck — 

He can't *stop* — 

He can't — 

And Porthos reaches up to *touch* him, to stroke Athos's chest and abdomen so hungrily, so *greedily* — 

To claw at him and *grip* — 

Athos has wanted Porthos to touch him this way for so *long* — 

Athos has wanted Porthos to touch him this way *everywhere* — and, just like that, Porthos has one hand on Athos's *arse*, Porthos is *yanking* him in *deep* — 

Porthos is forcing him to *grind* in, to — 

To not let him *breathe* — 

And Athos wants that, too, Athos wants all of it, every — 

And Aramis gives them the feel of his nose crushed in Porthos's cleft, his tongue stretched, Porthos's rim *clenching* — 

And d'Artagnan gives them the feel of him fucking himself on Porthos's cock, his beautiful *mouth*, and he's masturbating himself desperately, dreaming of being rolled over and taken, used — 

Athos *shouts* — 

Shouts *again* when he can't — 

Can't control his body's *reactions* to the thought of d'Artagnan lost, broken on the *wheel* of his own desires, sweaty and spent and still *taking* — 

All of them, then, all of them for *this*, and they can have it, there's nothing stopping them, there's — 

There's *trust*, and it's all he's ever *wanted* — 

"All, son?" 

And Treville is calling to him from the door, walking in, sharing with them all the feel of a small pot in his hand — 

They all know what it *is* —

Aramis shares with them all the feel of *himself* clenching *as* Porthos clenches around his tongue — 

"Beautiful. *Move*," Treville says — 

And Aramis groans and laughs and — "*Yes*, Daddy —" 

"You'll have your *many* turns soon enough, little one..." 

Aramis *grunts* — 

They can all feel his internal *flailing* for that — 

And Treville laughs, low and hungry and *dirty* as he shares the feel of his slick fingers on Porthos's wet *hole* — 

If anything, Porthos's face gets even *darker* with flush — 

He tries to urge Athos to get even *deeper*, even though that's *impossible* — but Athos can give it to him harder, *harder* — 

He can and he *has* to, because Treville doesn't *wait* to push in — 

Treville is pushing in with *two* — 

Porthos shares like a thunderclap *flash* — 

Athos feels *himself* being opened, feels himself wet, open, wet so *deep* — 

He *shouts* —

Aramis groans — 

d'Artagnan *chokes* on Porthos's cock — 

"Oh, sons. Just *wait*," Treville says, and *twists* his fingers even *deeper* — 

They all feel Porthos's cock *spasm* — 

They all feel him *seize* again — 

They all feel his desperate panic — he can't *move* in case this stops, in case any of this *stops* — 

"Shh, it's all right, son. We won't stop," Treville says, and starts to *fuck* Porthos. "We won't stop, at all." 

And Porthos shakes and shakes and — 

He's leaving fingertip *bruises* on Athos's arse — 

Athos can't — 

And then Treville crooks his *fingers* —

Everything — 

And everything is white, everything is shouting and *white*, everything is — 

Athos is slamming in, *grinding* in, *brutalizing* his brother's mouth — 

Aramis shares the feel of *kissing* d'Artagnan around the head of Porthos's *jerking* cock — 

d'Artagnan shares the look of Aramis's *blissful* face — 

And Treville crooks *again*, *again* — 

Athos *screams* — and spurts, shoving into it, spattering and splashing the back of Porthos's throat, choking, choking him with his cock and wanting more, wanting to last longer, wanting *more* — 

Porthos feels so *grateful* — 

Feels — 

And Treville is fucking him, fucking all of them, fucking them all so *hard* — 

Opening them *ruthlessly* fast and *efficiently* — 

He — 

Another flash — Aramis *lapping* at the drooling head of Porthos's cock while d'Artagnan sucks hard kisses along its *length* and Athos spurts *more* — 

Shouts — 

Grinds *in*, *in*, *in* — 

It feels so *perfect* — 

Porthos's hands are *shaking* on Athos's arse and chest — 

Porthos is swallowing around him over and over — 

Sucking and mouthing and — 

Athos groans and collapses with his hands against the *headboard* — 

"You're going to have to let him breathe eventually, son," Treville says, and — 

With time... 

Athos realizes that the man was speaking to him. 

d'Artagnan snickers — 

Aramis laughs *low* —

And then there's a flash of Porthos sharing his need, his shuddering, desperate — 

His *extremis* — 

His — 

And Treville crooks his fingers *again* — 

And they're *all* groaning, sobbing — 

Athos *pulls* out — and pushes his fingers right back in; he knows Porthos *needs* them — and then turns to watch Aramis drag his *beard* over the head of Porthos's cock — 

To watch d'Artagnan drag his *teeth* — 

He — 

"Let me. Let me," Athos says, and he's licking his lips, and he needs, he needs more, he can't possibly be this *greedy* — 

"You all can be everything you *are*," Treville says, and he looks them over with glowing eyes, *covetous* eyes — 

And Aramis and d'Artagnan are pulling back just like that — 

And Athos can crawl, move, *drop* until he can take that cock *in*, so big, so — 

His mouth doesn't know how to *do* this, but he has a hand, and he can *stroke* Porthos — 

"Why don't you go kiss your brother, d'Artagnan? Let him taste himself in your mouth," Treville says — 

"Oh, *fuck* —" 

And d'Artagnan moves, fast and needy, as needy as Athos is, as they *all* are — 

Aramis is sucking hard kisses all over Porthos's *sac* — 

Aramis is *nibbling* — 

Porthos is *shouting* into d'Artagnan's *mouth* — 

d'Artagnan is moaning, sharing — 

Sharing the feel of himself stroking Porthos's face, his beard, his hair — 

Kissing him so deeply — 

Kissing him so — 

(I taste so *much*!) 

And Athos swallows back saliva and tries to take more, tries to *fill* himself — 

"Tell yourself that you *will* have your brother's cock, son," Treville says — 

Athos grunts and *flexes* — 

*Needs* — 

"Tell yourself that there are simply no *alternatives*." 

And that — 

That's always been how he's *done* things — 

Everything — 

Of course Treville *knows* — 

(I'll know everything about you now, son...) 

Athos flushes and opens, opens, and it feels like his entire body is ready for this, waiting for him to lower himself — 

Down — 

Down and down and — 

(Gulp *now*, brother,) Aramis says, and then starts scraping his *teeth* — 

Porthos shouts and *bucks* — 

Athos *gulps* — and he's full, he's full, he's — 

And Porthos is pulsing in his throat, *throbbing* in his *throat* — 

"Good boys. Good, good boys..." And Treville pants, growls — "Here..." 

And he shares the feel of Porthos's heat around his fingers, Porthos clenching *arse* — 

Oh — 

Oh, *fuck* —

Athos's cock twitches much too soon, and he swallows, groans, reaches down to squeeze and *quiet* himself — 

And then *Porthos* shares the feel of those fingers, of Athos's mouth, of Aramis's mouth, of *d'Artagnan's* mouth — 

They're all groaning just that quickly — 

Sharing in return — 

Athos can taste sweat, spend — 

Athos can feel hair on his tongue, soft skin, the sweep of *another* tongue — 

Athos can feel a third finger — 

He's never taken — 

He's never — 

(I *have*,) Aramis says, and he's laughing in their minds, slurping and sucking outside — (Oh, *God*, Daddy!) 

And Treville is panting and growling and panting and growling and — *pushing* — 

Pushing and *opening* — 

"Suck *hard*, Athos!" 

Athos doesn't even know whose *mouth* he's using at the moment, but he can do that, he can suck, and suck, and squeeze someone's balls, and — 

No, no, suck while he's fucking his own face, while he's — 

And kiss — 

And suck more, more — 

And lick — 

And — 

And Treville *crooks* his three fingers so hard — 

Everything *flares* — 

So *bright* — 

Porthos *bucks* — 

Athos holds him, holds him *down*, fucks himself *faster* — 

Porthos is *yelling* into d'Artagnan's mouth — 

Athos can feel the vibrations of it — 

The way Porthos's balls are drawing up *tight* in Aramis's hand — 

The way Porthos's rim is — 

Quivering — 

So much, so much, and he must be close, they must be *driving* him — 

Porthos's shares with a *flash* of intensity, of *fire* — Treville is fucking him so hard, so — 

Oh, God — 

Athos *growls* around Porthos's *cock* — 

Chokes himself *off* — 

Stays there, stays right *there*, and *pulls* Porthos in the way he'd pulled Athos into *his* mouth — 

Porthos goes rigid for a moment — 

Trembles — 

*Shudders* — 

And then he *slams* into Athos's mouth, into Athos's throat, making him feel bruised, swollen, taken, *used* — 

Used so *perfectly* — 

Aramis moans and slurps beside him — 

"My *boys* — I —" And Treville growls — 

And Porthos shares Treville crooking his fingers *again* — 

Athos *screams* around Porthos's cock — 

And Treville is fucking him, all of them, *that* way, with his fingers partially *bent* — 

d'Artagnan *groans*, and he must not be *kissing* Porthos anymore — the sounds are so *loud* — 

"D-*Daddy*!" And Porthos's voice is hoarse, half-broken — 

"Oh. *Son*," Treville says. "Tell me I can *knot* you!" 

"*Yes*!" 

Treville *snarls* — "d'Artagnan, get up there and fuck his *mouth*." 

Porthos grunts and *strains* beneath him — 

Tries to buck — 

Tries to — 

"Oh — fuck — I just — I need — I keep needing more, and I can't — *fuck* —" 

And d'Artagnan shares the feel of Porthos's big hands on his hips, Porthos pulling him in, Porthos's swollen-plush lips on his *aching* cock — 

So big, so hard, so — 

And black blossoms in Athos's vision — 

It makes his own cock *throb* — 

And Aramis is right there to cup it, squeeze it, stroke it — 

Athos *bucks* — 

Porthos shares the feeling of d'Artagnan pushing in and in and — 

And Treville is working in a fourth *finger* — 

And Porthos is spasming, *spasming* — 

Wanting even *more*, all he can *get* — and so Athos bares his teeth and pulls back slowly, slowly — 

Porthos *yells* — 

Is choked — and spurts, splashing *hot* at the back of Athos's throat, splashing wet, thick, salt — 

So musky, just a little bitter, just a little sweet — 

Athos *swallows* — 

Swallows *Porthos* — 

Fucks himself and *fucks* himself and can't focus on anything else for long moments, can't — 

Can't *take* anything else but his brother, his beautiful *brother* — 

His perfect *spend* — 

His choked *cries* — 

And — 

"I — I — I won't *last*," d'Artagnan cries, and he's mournful, desperate, *needing* — 

He wants to give everything to Porthos — 

He wants to give everything to his *brother*, and they can all understand that, live for that — 

Athos grinds his face *down* — 

Porthos *whimpers* — 

Aramis *squeezes* Athos — 

Athos *shouts* in his mind, but he's choked, *choked* — 

"Oh, God — oh, *God* —" 

And Aramis is humming, *humming* — 

And Porthos's cock *jerks* in Athos's throat, not *softening* — 

Athos wants to keep *fucking* himself — 

"Let —" Treville *growls* — 

Athos shivers — 

"Let *Aramis* have a turn..." 

Aramis moans around Porthos's balls, slurps and groans and shudders — 

Pulls off *as* Athos forces himself to do the same — 

*His* mouth is swollen and red — 

"As is *yours*, brother," Aramis says, panting and *licking* his lips. "Come, let's switch *places*." 

"I —" 

And then d'Artagnan *groans* — 

It *becomes* a howl — 

"Oh, son..." 

Athos turns to *see* — and d'Artagnan is gripping Porthos's hands on his hips and fucking Porthos's face *wildly*, taking him so *hard*... 

Aramis makes a small sound. "That... I would like that."

Athos licks his lips — 

Moans — 

"I would like that immediately." 

d'Artagnan chokes and *whines* — 

Slams *in* — 

"Oh — oh, *fuck* — he — can you feel? He wants — he wants it just this *hard* and I can't stop I can't stop I can't — *fuck* —" 

"Your cock is *mighty*, little brother," Aramis says, and cups *Porthos's* slick cock — 

"Oh — *shit* —" 

"Of course you cannot stop —" 

"Aramis —" 

"You must *provide*." 

"You —" 

"You must share your bounty with *all* —" 

"Fuck fuck *fuck* — I —" And d'Artagnan howls *again*, looms over Porthos, grips at the headboard, muscles taut and straining and — ruts. 

Athos narrows his eyes in need — 

He — 

"You should see your Athos, little brother..." 

"I — *I* —" 

"You should see how he *stares* at you so *hungrily*..." 

"Nuh — please — please, I have to — to *last* —" 

Treville growls a laugh. "You have to fill my boy's *mouth* and you have to do it *now*." 

"*Fuck* — *nuh* — *AHN* —" And d'Artagnan grinds in *twice* — 

Shudders *violently* — 

And then they're *all* groaning for the feel of d'Artagnan's body *igniting* with pleasure, being *wracked* with pleasure as he pumps spend deep into Porthos's throat — 

Athos can't — 

His whole body is *quaking* — 

*His* cock is spurting again — 

He can't *see* — 

He can't feel anything but the *perfection* of Porthos's swollen *throat* — 

And then he's in his own body, *dropped* into his own body, his own — 

His cock spurts *again*, all over the duvet — 

Fuck — 

He drops his head to Porthos's torso and pants and pants and — 

And Aramis *sobs* — 

d'Artagnan *slumps* — 

And Treville — rumbles. "Well, then. That was beautiful, d'Artagnan." 

"I... I..." And d'Artagnan moans *desperately*. 

"Let your brother breathe, now." 

"He doesn't *want* to." 

"But *I* want to hear every sound he makes when I'm fucking. Him. *Hard*," Treville says — 

And every *one* of them feels Porthos *clench* on Treville's fingers — 

Treville's *exiting* fingers — 

They're all *groaning* again — 

Moving like *invalids* — 

Treville is *laughing* through his groans — "Good *boys*..." 

Eventually, Athos manages to switch places with Aramis. 

It's almost restful to suck Porthos's balls into his mouth.


	15. Ending One, Part Six: There comes a time in every man's life when he needs to be taken down a peg — lovingly, and with great force.

Treville wipes his hand on the towel he'd brought from his own bedroom, shivering for all the *feelings* that are being shared — 

For all the *pleasure* — 

He's never had anything *like* this, for all that he'd dreamed of it — mostly for his fantasies of Kitos and Reynard. He — 

"Your — mm," Aramis says, and licks the head of Porthos's cock twice. "Your imagination was failing you, Daddy."

"Was it, son?" 

"Oh, yes. We were right here, aching for you." And Aramis *breathes* on the head of Porthos's cock — 

Porthos groans — 

"I — I want to *protest* that," d'Artagnan says — 

"But you can't," Athos says. "Simply grow accustomed to the truth." 

Treville laughs — and stares into *Porthos's* wide, dazed eyes. "I can't help wondering if I should encourage —"

"Yes," Aramis says. "Yes, you should."

Treville laughs *more* — and slicks his cock. "All *right*, then. Consider yourselves encouraged in your debauchery. Consider yourselves positively *exalted* —" 

"*Daddy*!" 

He *snickers* — "I will never stop being a bastard, as an aside," he says, and turns back to his dazed, swollen-mouthed, hungry, *hungry* Porthos. "Are you ready, son?" 

(Don't — don't — I can't *talk* —) 

Oh... 

Treville can't stop himself from massaging Porthos's powerful thighs — 

From pushing them just that slightest bit wider — "Then just tell me if you still want more..." 

(Yes — fuck — yes, *please*!) 

"Good boy," Treville says, and presses the slick tip of his cock to Porthos's hole — 

To — 

And just the *feel* of that — 

(Daddy...) 

"I'm here, son. I'm — I won't let you *go*. In fact — d'Artagnan, sit behind him and hold those powerful arms of his." 

Porthos groans — 

d'Artagnan gasps — and moves immediately to do just that. 

It's understandable that these thoughts don't come naturally to the others. It's — 

If Treville had come up with Porthos as his brother, he would have allotted a goodly portion of his fantasy-time about him to the man throwing *him* around, and holding *him* down, and fucking *him* senseless — these things are natural, to a certain extent —

But. 

There comes a time in every man's life when he needs to be taken down a peg — or several. 

There comes a time in every man's life when he needs to know that his family — his loves — are willing to *do* that taking. 

A part of him, right now, only wants to go back for long enough to *attack* Kitos —

No matter *what* sort of day the man is having — 

The rest of him is here, right here, watching Athos *nuzzle* at Porthos's bollocks — 

Watching Aramis make *love* to the head of Porthos's cock as if there's nowhere else he'd rather be — 

Watching d'Artagnan *cradle* Porthos's head in his lap — and it's not the most effective pin he's ever seen, but Porthos's expression is one of bliss, sweetness, hunger, need, *joy* — 

Treville growls before he can *stop* himself — 

Porthos's breath hitches and he blinks, rolls his head, blinks more — 

Treville can't — 

He *pushes* — 

He *gives* Porthos his cock in one steady *stroke*, and he's panting for it, blowing more like a horse than a dog, Porthos is so *hot* inside — 

Treville's fingers have left him just a little *swollen* — 

Porthos's body isn't *used* to being fucked — 

Porthos sobs and reaches for — but which of them does he want? 

(All — more — *PLEASE* —) 

And Aramis grips Porthos's hand and squeezes his cock — 

Athos squeezes his *sac* — 

And d'Artagnan pushes two long fingers into his mouth, presses down on the front of his tongue — 

Porthos is *shaking* — and so is Treville — 

(*Daddy* — Daddy don't stop — none — *DON'T* —) 

And they're not gentle, not — 

Athos *pumps* Porthos's sac while Porthos *yells*, messy and loud, around d'Artagnan's *thrusting* fingers — 

Aramis *works* Porthos's *cock* with hand and mouth, fingers and lips and tongue and *teeth* — 

Porthos *screams* — 

Or maybe he does it for the way Treville is shoving *in* — 

Growling and needing and he can't — 

He's shoving *in*, and it's his boy, and he gives them all the feel of his watery knees the day Porthos had walked into his office for the first time, the way he'd been terrified he'd have to stand *up* for something, because he knew he'd fall to his knees at Porthos's feet and *weep* — 

Beg him to never leave — 

Tear at his clothes and *sniff* —

Lick — 

And Porthos sobs, shows him chaotic images of how he would've reached for Treville, begged for stories of his mother — 

Of the people who'd been his family before he'd lost everything — 

Big brown hands on Treville's weeping face — 

Shaking hands and open *heart* — 

(I I was for *you* —) 

And Treville can't — 

He's snarling, driving in, changing his angle — 

He can't think — 

He can't *think*, and he has to make his boy *pleasured* — 

(I believe you are, Daddy...) 

More, *more*, and now he's driving against his boy's swollen pleasure-button, shoving and ramming and holding *back* the need to push in with his knot — 

(DON'T!) 

Oh — 

(Don't — please — PLEASE —) 

Son — 

(Don't hold *back*, sir,) Athos says, and sucks a bigger bruise onto Porthos's sac, onto a bruise Aramis had already *left* — 

(Don't *deny* him,) Aramis says, swallowing Porthos's cock in an easy, professional move that makes Treville *hunger* — 

Aramis shares the fullness of his *throat* — 

Treville *groans* and ruts and ruts and — 

And he's pushing in, he can't — 

He can't pull *out* far enough — 

He'd meant to give his boy the *longer* thrusts — 

"You can do that another *time*," d'Artagnan says — 

"Let us..." And Athos sucks another hard kiss — 

Shares the feel of hair on his lips — 

His *scars* — 

Treville loses his *rhythm* — 

Athos *hums* — "Let us feel your knot, sir." 

Treville *growls* — 

Loses himself utterly for a moment to a fantasy — Olivier, not Athos, and all the many times Treville didn't invite him back to his office after a hard day's training — 

All the many times he didn't look over the bruises, examine the strains, bend him over the desk — 

Show him — 

*Show* him — 

Athos *groans* — 

But Porthos is whining, biting d'Artagnan's fingers, gasping — 

Gasping for Treville's *knot* — 

Taking — 

(Daddy — BIG —)

And they're all *rocked* by the flash of Porthos's sensations, by the way *he's* experiencing — 

Treville *sweats* for the feel of himself being opened wider than he has been in *years* — 

(I — I would very much like to hear this story!) And Aramis is groaning in his chest, drooling around Porthos's slick cock — 

d'Artagnan is wincing and *squeezing* his hardening *cock* — 

Athos is panting and *shuddering* — 

And Porthos is shaking, shaking, wincing and moaning and — 

"That's it, son. That's — oh, that's perfect, just breathe, just breathe, you feel *perfect* —" 

Porthos *flexes* open — 

Athos *shouts* — 

"Good *boy*. You're making us all ready to take it. You're making us all need it just the way you do." 

(PLEASE I PLEASE I —) 

"Shh, it's all right, it's all just fine. We know you need it. Don't we, boys." 

"*Yes*," d'Artagnan says, and starts *fucking* Porthos's mouth with his fingers again — 

(Oh, yes, my Master, you must *take*!) 

(Brother. Take everything. *Have* everything. You deserve it all.) 

"You see?" 

And Porthos tosses his head — 

Turns enough to mouth and kiss d'Artagnan's cock — 

"Ahn —" 

And that's enough distraction for Treville to push in just a little more — 

Flash and they all groan, sob, *need* — 

Treville doesn't stop this time, won't stop until he must, until — 

But what if he'd done it?

What if he'd given himself to the twenty-year-old Porthos who'd walked into his office, given himself the way he'd so badly wanted to? 

What would've been the harm? 

The worst he could've done was *run* from Treville, and Treville had all the power of the King's Musketeers behind him, then. He could've caught him, held him with no one *questioning* him — 

Held him in his magically-enhanced arms and made him *understand*. 

He's Porthos's *dog*, and he's been without for too long, too *long* — 

And the feel of him now is just what he's needed — so hot, so slick, so — 

The throb *around* Treville's knot pounding through him even as the throb *in* Treville's knot is driving him madder, driving him on — 

*In* — 

Porthos *screams* — 

"Closer, son, *closer*. You've got the biggest part now, you can take the rest easily —" 

(I need — PLEASE HOLD ME DOWN!) 

And the unspoken words — he fears he's going to fight. He fears his body will *make* him fight. 

"Boys —" 

And Aramis pulls back with a slurp and *braces* Porthos's hips with Athos — "We have him." 

"And I do, too! And he has *me* — fuck — sucking so — *fuck*, Porthos —" 

"He *needs* us," Treville says and *shoves* Porthos's thighs what must be a little painfully wide — 

Shoves and shoves *in*, that last little — 

Porthos *howls* — 

Shares with a *flash* — 

They're all shaking — 

Burning and aching and *shouting* — 

Treville is clenching and clenching and — 

Fuck, he's making his cock *flex* inside Porthos, and he doesn't want to *do* that, he wants to give Porthos time, make it easy on his boy, his beautiful boy — 

His gasping, sweet — 

Oh, but his eyes are wide, now — 

There are tears on his cheeks, and he looks so dazed, so *wondering* — 

(Full — so — I'm — *Daddy* —) 

"I've — I've got you, son. I've got you plugged up *tight*, now..."

Porthos *clenches* — 

Treville *growls* — 

Porthos strains — 

He's trying to buck, he's trying — 

"Oh, you beautiful boy, you perfect, beautiful —" 

(You — you can let me — go —) 

"*No*. You're going to stay right there and *take* it," Treville says, and *shoves* in* — 

Porthos's mouth falls open on a soundless scream — 

"Oh, that's — oh, Daddy..." 

"You get next turn, Aramis. I've — *nnh* — *decided*," Treville says, and shoves *in* — 

Porthos *coughs* a yell — 

"*Fuck*," Athos says, and holds Porthos harder, *harder* — 

"Do you — do you want it, too?" 

"We *all* do," Athos says — 

"Do I get a —" 

"You do *not* get a say, little brother, as you have been dreaming of being flipped over and *used* for twenty minutes!" 

"But that's just normal!" 

Treville laughs hard and *grinds* in — 

In and in and — 

Oh, he's groaning for it, sweating like a pig and dreaming — 

*Dreaming* — 

d'Artagnan on his hands and knees, arse in the air and taking the pounding of a *lifetime* — 

"Oh my *God* —" 

"I'll make. You. *Love* it," Treville says, laughing hard and *clawing* his Porthos's thighs again — 

"*Yes*!" 

"Oh, good *boy* —" 

"I — I — I'll talk —" 

"You *won't*," Treville says, *gripping* those thighs again and rutting hard, rutting *fast* — 

Porthos *gurgles* — 

His eyes roll *up* — 

Oh, yes — 

Oh, *yes*, and he can grind a *little* — 

Change the *angle* a little more — there — 

Porthos *barks* a cry, making Treville's *ears* flex — 

Making Treville's body *ache* to be *covered* — 

But his boy will maybe give him that, too...? 

He can hope? 

"We all *will*," Athos says, and really — 

"Oh, *yes*, Daddy," Aramis says with *relish*, and *really* — 

"Such good *boys*," Treville says, panting, hungering, hungering for exactly what he has — no. More. 

His boy's thick, beautiful cock in his hand — 

His balls — 

He cups and squeezes, warms them, *cherishes* as he *ruts* — 

Porthos is *thrashing* in his other boys' arms — 

Taking this so — 

"You're so *beautiful*," Treville says, and *rams* his knot against Porthos's pleasure-button again, again, *again*, over and over — "I won't let you *go*!"

Porthos wails like a *child* — 

His cock *spills* — 

"I'm not *done* with you," Treville says, squeezing and stroking, milking and *holding* — 

Rutting in and *in*, and he's never felt so — 

So *complete* — 

"Yes, that's it *precisely*," Athos says, and *shoves* Porthos's shuddering body *down* against the sheets — 

"We are so *full*," Aramis says and licks up the spots and spatters — 

"We — we — we're a *family*," d'Artagnan says — 

And Porthos slumps, finally *slumps* — 

d'Artagnan moans, wriggles out from behind him to kiss, to hold, to — yes, *cherish* — 

And it's so important, so right — 

Treville won't *stop* — 

Athos holds Porthos down with the weight of his body and joins one hand to the hand Treville has on Porthos's cock — 

Aramis does the same on Porthos's other side, and joins one hand to the hand Treville has on Porthos's *balls* —

They *work* him — 

They — 

They give him everything, *everything*, and his boy is moaning breathlessly, panting, *trembling* — 

*Weakly* moving his arms, but getting nowhere — 

He has the resistance of a *ragdoll* now, and Treville has left many boys and men in that state, left them limp and pliant, needy for *relief* as much as pleasure — 

He gets so *hungry* — 

He must not *hurt* his boy, not in the bad way, but he needs — 

He — 

He needs to get that slightest bit deeper, that — 

He growls and leaves his boy's tackle to Athos and Aramis, gripping the *backs* of his thighs and shoving them *up*, just a little — 

"Did you plan to *crush* us, Daddy?" 

"You — you *love* it," Treville says, and it's barely more than a growl, a verbal *snarl* — 

"Oh, I do, I do — crush me more! Take your *boy*." 

"HNH —" But he's already doing it, pushing Porthos's right leg up and back and back — 

"You can crush me, as well..." 

And the *left* — 

And his boys, his boys are *grunting* — 

Porthos is breathless, so — 

And he's in, *in*, and he can all but *fall* into his boy as he ruts that much faster, that much *deeper*, as he *gives* it to his Porthos just the way he *needs* to — 

"Say, sir..." And d'Artagnan sounds curious, hungry, beautiful — 

"I — I'm *listening* —" 

"Would this be even better for you if it were one of us you were knotting and Porthos — somehow — knotting *you*?" 

Treville *barks*, slamming *in* — 

*In* — 

He can't — 

He can't control himself — 

The images are too — 

The imagined *sensations* — 

"Or perhaps my Master could fuck our Daddy's mouth while we all take turns *filling* our Daddy?"

"*Fuck* — I — *please*!" 

"I do hope our missions are brief and lubrication-intensive from now on," Athos says — 

And Treville *coughs* a laugh — 

Loses — 

Loses all *trace* of a rhythm — 

"Oh, Daddy, just do it, just *fuck* —" 

Yes — *yes* — 

"Oh, God, I *do* want to feel that —" 

Flash and Porthos is sharing, sharing the *hum* of his limbs, his well-used *body* — 

And his well-used *arse*. He's wide-open and plugged, at once — 

He's swollen and just a little *raw* — 

He's — 

He's so *tender*, and they're all moaning again, grinding against the bed, gasping — 

Treville is fucking his boy even *harder* — 

And d'Artagnan sobs and cries out and *spurts*, spend arcing high — 

So *beautiful* — 

His boys are so — 

Perfect — 

And if he could just see his Porthos's eyes one more — 

One more time — 

Porthos groans and tilts his head and *looks* at him — 

*Smiles* at him, so loose and sweet and *soft* — 

It hits Treville like a plank to the *spine*, and he manages one more thrust — 

One more and a grind and he's spurting, filling his boy with hot spend, filling him up and just — 

Oh, fuck, he's already swelling, already — 

Porthos *gasps* — 

He's still *sharing* — 

Athos is moaning — 

Aramis is *panting* — 

d'Artagnan is rubbing at his own hole as if he can stop — ease? — the sensations *that* way — "Nuh — I — I'm just so *full* —" 

"You — *fuck* — you can *take* it," Treville says, and that didn't sound human, at *all* — 

d'Artagnan *whines* — 

Treville's cock *throbs* — 

And Porthos's lashes flutter on his cheeks as he smiles even wider, as he — 

"Oh, Porthos — *Porthos* —" 

"'m. 'm yours, Daddy..." 

Treville groans loudly and *shakes* — 

He's still *spurting* — 

With the swell of his knot it feels like forcing something solid through the eye of a *needle* — 

It feels bloody *perfect*. 

He shares *that* — 

And collapses on his hands as he spurts *more* — 

Athos makes a garbled sound and goes *rigid* — 

Aramis slumps —

d'Artagnan falls off the bed.

"I'm all right! I landed on my pride."

Treville laughs and stretches Porthos's legs out again. He's too shaky to rub life into them, though. 

He's too shaky to do more than rest his hands on them and stroke — 

Pet and molest and *love* — 

They're all doing that, once d'Artagnan gets back up. 

Porthos is moaning softly for it — 

Laughing every few moments at nothing, at all — or perhaps at thoughts too deep in his own mind to be *automatically* shared — 

"Just... just this..." 

"Yes, my Master?" And Aramis kisses Porthos's belly-button. 

Porthos sighs and laughs more. "I never imagined... anything. Not like this." 

"But you wanted it, didn't you? I mean — you *did*," d'Artagnan says, wedging himself back between Porthos and the headboard. 

"I did, yeah, but... it was more like wanting to be taken out of my head. Not wanting specifically... this. I couldn't have imagined this if I'd *tried*." 

Athos hums. "Yes. That makes perfect sense to me. It's all too incredible... and yet here we all are." 

"Dripping with sweat and spend," Porthos says, and laughs more. "Fuck, I think my bollocks-sac is as flat as a pricked bladder." 

Treville *snorts* — 

Athos eyes the bollocks-sac in question — 

"I feel there is a comment to be made about pricked bladders and our recruit —" 

"Bloody *hell*, Aramis!" 

"— but I am at a loss," Aramis says, sighing happily, and proceeding to kiss Porthos everywhere he can reach. 

Porthos snickers and reaches for d'Artagnan's hands, bringing them back to his mouth — 

"Oh — yeah?" 

Porthos kisses them. "Thank you. Thank *all* of you. I don't know what I can do —"

"Lie there and take it as often as possible," Treville says, and flexes his cock *just* a bit more — 

Porthos *grunts* —

"Spend all *over* us," Aramis says, and licks up a stray spatter. 

"Leave bruises on us as you force us to fuck you *harder*," Athos says, and nuzzles Porthos's thigh-crease — 

"And um. Think seriously about making all of us do the same things. *Lots*," d'Artagnan says. 

"Well, I already do *that*." 

"About *me* — wait, Aramis already said — did you really tell him to perfume his *arse*-crack to *seduce* me?" 

"*No*! I told him to perfume the small of his *back*." 

"Just as I *said*, little brother." 

Athos stares at Porthos. 

"What? It's really nice perfume! Very *alluring*."

Treville snickers hard, settling back on his knees a little. They're all going to be here for a while. Might as well get comfortable. 

end of ending one.


	16. Ending Two, Part One: Too late.

Treville knows the spot in the rubble he'll need to use immediately — and there's a cold spot in his heart for it. A cold *wind* running through him — 

There's something — 

He makes the others take the horses out of range just the same and starts gathering his power, starts — 

There's so much here, more than he'd ever *imagined* ever *needing* — 

There's — 

But the cold *thing* is still in his heart, and there's knowledge coming with the power. 

_He's too late._

_The door is closed._

But he won't hear that, he can't hear that, he *can't*. So — he stands, right there, right where (it would've been) it's right to stand, and he draws and draws and draws on the power until he can't think, can't be, can't *exist* in any way but the witch — 

And then he reaches for his brothers, yes, yes, and Porthos, too — 

His —

His *boy* — 

And Aramis — 

He can hear them-feel them-taste — 

There are questions — 

There's *worry* — 

But he has to keep drawing on the power, keep — 

Taking — 

The door can't be *closed* — 

And then Aramis draws in the other two, Athos and d'Artagnan, and it's warm, good, *good*, but he still can't — 

He can see it, the place where he — 

He can see the place he needs to touch, the place he needs to *open* — 

The place that would be reaching for *him* if — 

If it wasn't too late. 

It's a blank wall. 

He beats at it with all the power he's taken. 

He beats at it with — 

With everything he *is* — 

And there are more questions from his brothers, all of his brothers — 

They're *all* his now, they're *bound*, and he's so sorry, he knows this is at least *part* of why — 

This or whatever the other Treville was doing — 

And then he knows, he knows, it wasn't him, at all, it wasn't them, it was the other Treville, because he hadn't wasted any bloody time, because he'd — 

He'd changed it *all* — 

Treville *beats* at the *wall* and there's nothing, nothing but pain all through him, pain in his — in his *soul* — 

The questions are shouted, screamed — 

He's being shaken — 

The connections are broken — 

No — 

"I'm *sorry*, Fearless, but —" 

Black.


	17. Ending Two, Part Two: Doing it right.

They're back in the plague barracks by unspoken agreement and... 

They honestly don't have fuck-all idea what to do. At least, Porthos doesn't know — 

(None of the rest of us do, either, my Master. You may trust me on this.) 

Porthos reaches over to where Aramis is sitting against one of the beds beside him and grips his strong hand. 

Aramis grips him back. 

Getting the hell out of the burnt-out parts of the city had been necessary, especially since Treville had been *lighting* those parts of the city up like artillerymen with a never-ending *purse* before Kitos had bashed him a good one upside the head. 

Getting *Treville* someplace safe and quiet was necessary, too, if only to wash the sodding — 

He'd been bleeding from his nose, his mouth — 

A little trickle from both sodding *eyes* — 

(I *do* think the injuries he has caused himself are minor, my Master.) 

I think so, too, really. I think — 

(That you would feel it if they were worse?) 

Yeah, Porthos says, and swallows. 

Still — 

It's hard to feel good about any of this, not least because Kitos and Reynard are flanking the bed Treville's on across the way, looking and feeling black as *thunderclouds*, and because Athos and d'Artagnan have, as quietly as possible, started gathering the lieutenants together to give them all the really sodding problematic news. 

(I am still not certain —) 

Treville can't play himself, love. He just — he *can't*. Can you bloody *imagine* him at Court? Fencing with *Richelieu*?

"Who is this Richelieu and why can we not kill him? Mm? I have had noble blood on my sword before," Reynard says, and sounds just just as *mad* as he should, but — a little too tense. 

Kitos grunts. "Let him be, boys. He'll be tense until Fearless wakes up and starts grizzling." 

Reynard growls — "Who is *Richelieu* —" 

"The Cardinal," Aramis says. "He wields more power than Treville, and... Treville has always said he was useful." 

"But you do not *like* him." 

"He's a bloody *viper*," Porthos says. "He *needs* to be stabbed —" 

"Then I will do this, and then we will —" 

"Sit *down*, fox-face —" 

"Do not *order* me —" 

"*Reynard*," Kitos says. 

"We have to. We have to make a *place* for notre meneur!" 

Kitos leans onto the narrow bed, twining his fists together next to Treville's chest, which is rising and falling regularly. "And we will. But if we *do* have to carve that place out of some other bastard's chest? We'll actually *plan* it." And Kitos nods to him and Aramis. "*With* the blokes who know their way around this — this sphere, I guess. Bloody buggering fuck." 

Reynard winces — and slumps. 

And sits back down on the other side of the bed. 

Porthos gives them a minute, and then clears his throat. "You can talk to us, you know." 

"About what, mon ami, mm? Terrible, world-altering mistakes? I would think you would have had your fill of that sort of talk." 

Porthos snorts. "Maybe a *bit*, but — you blokes have *got* to get your grieving out. You — at least if it *is* true that there's no way back —" 

"There isn't," Kitos says. "Fearless wouldn't've gone mad like that if there was." 

"Are you certain?" And Aramis looks back and forth between them. "It seemed to me that he took much power, and surely that would change anyone, fray anyone's *control*." 

"Make anyone reach out to bind two otherwise innocent blokes who were just standing about?" And Kitos raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis winces. "I — couldn't not. It felt incorrect to share such —" 

Reynard and Kitos both raise hands, and Reynard smiles wryly. "We understand this. It is something both of us would do, in your situation," he says, and turns to Kitos with an eyebrow up. 

"Aye. I could never leave our fox-face out." 

"As I could never leave out notre verrat." 

Porthos can tell that eases Aramis a *little*, but — "Pet...?" 

Aramis gives him a strained smile. "I..." He turns back to include the others. "I cannot help but feel that what I did was what caused the spells to fail." 

Kitos blinks — 

Reynard colours — 

Porthos *winces* — 

"Yes, you see —" 

"Non, non, you must not —" Reynard shakes his head and turns his chair enough that he can face Aramis properly. "S'il te plait, you must not blame yourself for this. You saw how much power notre meneur was *wielding* —" 

"I thought he was going to flatten *more* of that bloody neighbourhood," Kitos says. 

"Oui, precisely. Why do you think he could not have stopped you, or undone what you did, if it interfered with what he was trying to do?" 

"It... it seems as though we have *all* been dealing in irrevocable choices, friend Reynard." 

Reynard smiles wryly, crookedly — "Ah, well, there is that — but somehow, I feel strongly that, when notre meneur wakes, he will tell us that *that* was not one of them." 

Aramis swallows and nods — 

Porthos cups the back of his neck and squeezes. "Listen to them, pet. Having bound us made him *need* us to open the — the bloody door or whatever. It didn't — it wouldn't have made it harder." 

Aramis frowns — 

"I," Treville says, and his voice is rusty and hoarse — 

Reynard jumps to get him wine — 

"Easy, fox-face, let's make certain —" 

"He *needs* it —" 

"We don't want him to cough it all out and hurt his throat —" 

"Fucking shit, you two bicker like fishwives," Treville says, *laughing* hoarsely — 

Coughing — 

And Reynard and Kitos grin. Both of them have tears in their eyes. Kitos booms a little laugh. "You know fishwives curse more, Basset." 

"C'est vrai, and a lot more fluently —" 

Treville laughs more — 

*Coughs* more — but only a little before he stops. 

"Wine, meneur? Can you take it?" 

Treville nods and reaches. "I think so," he says, and clears his throat. "My mouth feels like the bottom of a fireplace, and my throat feels like you lot have been jabbing it with pokers, but if I can just *sip* instead of gulping..." 

"I'm sure you'll remember how, with time," Porthos says, with a grin. 

"You shut it, or I'll fall on you *extremely* weakly," Treville says, taking the wine and sipping — 

And wincing — 

And sipping more. 

He gets through half the tumbler that way, sighs, nods, and then takes a *drink* — 

"Oi — Treville —" 

"Not to worry, Porthos," Kitos says. "If he thinks he can drink —" 

"He can *absolutely* drink," Reynard says, grinning and sighing. 

Treville finishes the tumbler and hands it back to Reynard, sighs, sits up — 

And nearly falls back down. Kitos catches him, and Reynard slips extra pillows behind him. 

"This is *ludicrously* embarrassing —" 

"Shut it and take your punishment," Kitos says. "You know you overdid it." 

Treville growls — 

Coughs — 

And Reynard is right there to rub his chest. 

We're — all of us — exactly this insane for each other. Aren't we, pet.

(When we are not, there is something badly wrong,) Aramis says, and smiles at him. 

Too right. 

"There's nothing —" 

"Stop talking, Basset." 

Treville snaps — 

Kitos booms laughter — 

And Treville turns back to them. "There's nothing bloody insane about *brotherhood*. Remember that. Remember that *always* —" 

"*Treville*," Porthos says, and gives the man a look. "Are you giving me life lessons?" 

Treville looks *horrified* — 

And then embarrassed — 

And then just rueful. "I — yes. But —" 

"You have to. You're built that way. I get it," Porthos says, and jerks his chin at the man. "But uh... we've got a few other things to clear up first." 

"He *really* shouldn't talk that much," Kitos says. 

"Non, he should not," Reynard says, hand splayed on Treville's chest. 

Treville covers it almost absently — almost. (I'll talk this way until I heal a bit more. It's not like you can't all hear me this way, right?) 

They all nod. 

(So. Here it is, lads — the door was barred from the other *side*.) 

Aramis blinks. "Do you mean... the changes that kept you here —" 

(Were made by *your* Treville. Or by the people around him that he inspired. At least, that's as near as I could make out before Kitos whalloped me.) 

"You needed it, Fearless, you were —"

(Losing my mind, I know it. I —) He growls. (You have to understand. The power I had at my fingertips... I could've done so many *things*! I could've reshaped this whole bloody *sphere*. But I couldn't open that bloody door.) 

"And it was driving you spare," Porthos says, nodding thoughtfully. "I — how *are* you? Really." 

Treville smiles ruefully. (Looking to the next step so I don't fall down into a pit, mate. Looking — what are we to do, eh? This isn't —) 

"This *is* our world," Reynard says, nose in the air. "We will *take* it for our own." 

Kitos rumbles a laugh. "Reynard will fuck as many fine ladies as it *takes*." 

"I —" 

"He will *not*," Treville says, and coughs —

"Easy, cher, *easy*," Reynard says, rubbing his chest, petting his throat. "Mon petit chien is just a bit possessive?" 

"I —" Treville growls. (Mark your territory in other *ways*.) 

Reynard laughs filthily, swiveling his hips. "As you *say*..." 

Treville *grins* filthily, reaching — 

Kitos yanks him back. "Down, boy." 

(KITOS —) 

"*Rest*, you arsehole. Fox-face, remove the temptation." 

Reynard *immediately* sits down — 

(I hate both of you!) 

"Don't I know it," Kitos says, leaning over Treville and adjusting the blankets and — 

And Treville grabs *his* prick. 

"Hrm." 

Porthos snickers hard. 

Reynard wheezes. 

Aramis clears *his* throat.

"Yes, alley-cat?" And Treville is using his other hand to tug on Kitos's beard. 

"Alley — yes, well. Treville, would you say you feel *better* now?" 

"*No*, I feel bloody horrible. That's *why* I want to fuck. I'd like to feel *better* now. Kitos, where the hell is your *skin*?" 

"Hiding from *you*." 

Treville growls again —

Porthos laughs *hard*. "We could put a lead on him for you two. Maybe a muzzle —" 

Treville gives him a wounded look. 

Porthos *chokes* on a laugh — "*Treville*." 

Kitos uses the distraction to get Treville's hands off him, back under the covers, and to get himself back in his chair. 

Treville glares. 

Indiscriminately. 

Porthos *coughs* — "You're like a bloody *puppy*!" 

"I —" 

"I cannot help wanting to... pet..." And Aramis makes petting *motions* — 

Treville perks *right* up — 

"*Oi* —" 

Reynard is giving Aramis a *dirty* look — 

"I cannot help it! He's in need! I am a *surgeon*." 

Kitos's laughter sounds like artillery setting off a bloody *rockslide* —

Aramis is still petting at the *air* — 

Treville is peeling back the *covers* — 

"So," Reynard says to *him*. "About the ladies of Paris..." 

Treville *yips* and starts to *pounce* on Reynard — 

And Kitos reaches over and *scruffs* Treville. 

"*Damn* it —" 

"Shut it." 

"You —" 

"Shut it." 

Treville growls like the end of the *world* — 

"Ah, good," Athos says, walking in with d'Artagnan, "everyone is awake." 

Kitos gives Treville a shake — 

"*Fuck* —" 

— and then sets him back down. 

Treville shakes *himself* and focuses. "What news, lad?" 

Athos opens his mouth — 

Closes it — 

"You do realize that I'm three years older than you, don't you?" 

"You'll get past it in time," Treville says. "News?" 

Athos raises an eyebrow. "How good do you think you'll be at playing your own previously well-hidden bastard." 

Treville's jaw drops — 

"Athos, lad, will people *believe* that?" And Kitos has turned his chair and is leaning in. 

"Oui, oui. Your Treville, does he... ever? With women?" 

Porthos shrugs. "He hasn't with *anyone*, near as I could tell, in five *years*." 

Their guests look queasy for that. 

Treville clears his throat. "And you were... paying attention?" 

"I was! I was *really* curious." 

Treville smiles softly. "You could feel him. You could feel that he was yours and you were his." 

Reynard *looks* at Treville. 

Porthos wags his head. "I don't know if I'd go that far. But — I could feel that everything was *better* when I was close to him. More *right*. And of course I loved it when he *touched* me." 

Treville sighs. "He loved it, too. I promise. He —" 

Reynard clears his throat *hard*. 

Treville blinks. "Are you — I'm starting to think you're *jealous*, Reynard, and that can't be right." 

Reynard stares. 

Kitos stares. And then lets out one of those rockslide-laughs again. 

"That is *really* impressive," d'Artagnan says. 

"The laugh, lad?" And Porthos cranes up a bit to see him. 

d'Artagnan sits on the bed behind and beside him. "No — well, yeah, that, too, but mostly the abject stupidity." 

"It's possible Kitos hit him too many times," Athos says, and sits behind and beside Aramis. 

"No, I do not believe that is possible," Aramis says. 

"*I* thought you wanted to *pet* him," Porthos says, stroking the back of Aramis's neck a little before wrapping an arm round his shoulders — 

"Oh, I do, I do, but — he does need to be hit." 

"Right, then. Kitos, smack him around a bit." 

Treville whines and turns to Porthos — "Porthos, at the very least, you should stop to think about whether you'd treat your hunting hounds this way —" 

Porthos snickers. "I'm bloody *poor*, you arse. I don't *have* hunting hounds!" 

"Also," Kitos says, and *smacks* Treville — 

"*Ow* —" 

"You were our hunting hound first, Fearless." 

"For fuck's —" And then he looks at Reynard.

*Really* looks at him. 

"Oh." 

(Will you hear me better if I speak to you like this, cher?) 

Treville *grunts* — (You haven't, really.) 

(Do you like it?)

(I love everything about you. I — do you know that?) 

Reynard stares at Treville for long moments, lips parted and eyes wide — 

(Reynard —) 

(Toujours frères.) 

(Toujours pas *assez*,) Treville says, and starts to get up out of bed — 

(Do not move.) 

(*Reynard* —) 

(Do not *move*.) 

Treville growls — 

(I will say these things in this space, in *this* way, because I can pretend that we are alone, because I can pretend that we will — ) Reynard winces and turns away — 

(Don't *do* that —) 

(I never would have said anything...) 

(What? Said anything about what?) 

Reynard is — panting. And his long hair is hiding his face from everyone — including, for once, Treville. 

(*Reynard*, you can't — don't — revenir à moi —) 

(Toujours, ah, *toujours*, but...) 

(No *buts* —) 

(Listen. Listen. I will tell you a little dream I had, of our future, yours and mine and notre verrat's.) 

Treville blinks — 

Frowns — 

(I — I'm listening...) 

(We are old — too old to fight, at last. We have been... put out to *pasture* —)

(That's a bloody *horrible* —) 

(Wait. Please?) 

(I — all right...) 

(We are *old*. But... we are well enough, oui? We are *alive*, and still *together*, and we have a little money...) Reynard laughs. (Or you do, most probably. Our little noble.) 

(Reynard —) 

(We *retire*. The three of us, all together...) 

(Oh. Oh...) 

(Ah, oui. It's *good*, non? We keep up your manor — or parts of it. We fend off all the vultures asking about your *line* — or. Or maybe Kitos and I, we convince you to adopt some good and likely orphan — a Musketeer! — to be the next Treville.) 

(*Shit* —) 

(We will raise him together on all of our stories... we. We will be a family.) 

(And. Together? Forever? That was your dream? Even before... before?) 

(Oui, cher. It was my *best* dream. In some ways... my only dream.)

(But...) Treville frowns and shakes his head. (We didn't *touch* in that dream. Not — not any of us...) 

(Ah, non. You had your boys. I had my girls, my women, as did Kitos. My dream — it left all the secrets intact. Safe.) 

(*Reynard*... I... is that... is that what you —) 

(It's *not* what I want,) Reynard says, finally turning back finally *showing* himself — 

He's red — 

Clashing with his *hair* — 

This time, Kitos doesn't stop Treville from reaching out to stroke his face, to pat his beard and moustache back into place — (Tell me what you want. Tell me —) 

"I never would've said a *word*," Reynard says, and his voice after all the silence feels like a shattering, feels like — 

They're all *wincing* — 

"I never — I would not have *reached* for you. I would not have — kissed you — oh, mon cher, I never thought I'd see you *need* someone else the way you needed *us*. The way you needed — me." 

Treville rears back — 

And Reynard laughs painfully, hysterically — "Do not try to deny this thing. You — even if we *had* made it back to our own time, our own place... you would have adopted the boy Porthos, tried *again* to marry Amina — tried seriously this time, tried like — like a *man*, leaving us boys in the *dust* —" 

"I would *never* leave you!" 

"No? Are you certain of this? Do not boys' games always pall to men?" 

"*Reynard* —" 

"I felt myself *losing* you!" 

"Fuck — are you saying — are you saying that's the only *reason* —" 

"Oh — *non*. I am saying..." And Reynard stands, and pushes his hands back through his hair. "I am saying that you are the most important thing in my life. That I will follow you anywhere, at any time, for any reason. That I am *yours*, always *yours*. And that I will always fear losing you." 

And Treville croons low, hurt — 

It makes Porthos want — 

Aramis *locks* a hand around his wrist, and Porthos gets that message all *through* him, but — 

But nothing's quite right inside him until Treville reaches out again and Reynard takes his hand, and allows himself to be tugged to the bed. 

Nothing's quite right until Treville's nipping Reynard all over his face and shoulders and throat — 

"Cher — oh, cher —" 

"I fell in love with you —" Treville growls and nips Reynard's cheek again. "I fell in love with you when we were still learning which nicknames for each other we hated the most." 

Reynard laughs — 

"He did, you know," Kitos says, cleaning his nails with a dagger — and a lot of studied casualness. "You could see it all over his face."

"I —" 

"Or maybe *you* couldn't — because you didn't know him for long enough *before* he was in love with you," Kitos says, and looks up. "You put those stars in his eyes." 

Reynard sucks in a harsh breath — "Verrat, he loves *you*, too —" 

"'course he does, and he lets me know it. He lets me manhandle him, coddle him, nanny him — he lets me make him into the twelve or so younger brothers and sisters I left behind when I joined the regular Army. He lets me, even though it drives him bloody *spare*, and also if anyone *else* tried it they'd get *shot*. Or worse — he'd open that mouth of his." And Kitos smiles wryly at Treville. 

"I — I love it when you take care of me. Actually." 

"You sodding don't!" 

"I do!" 

"You *don't*." 

"I *do* —" 

"*Fearless*." 

"I grizzle on *reflex* half the time — what would I bloody do without you taking care of me? I'd be a puddle on the floor! Only *he* likes that," Treville says, and points to d'Artagnan. 

"For fuck's *sake* —" 

Reynard splutters — 

Kitos laughs so hard the chair creaks ominously — 

And Treville winks at *them*, and really, they're snickering and snorting hard enough that they pretty much have to let him get away with it. 

"Now, then, on to serious business," Treville says. "I'm in love with both of you arseholes, you're my sodding *brothers*, it doesn't surprise me in the *slightest* that *losing* you turned me into a *pillock* —" 

Porthos opens his mouth — 

"He kept the facts of your *life* from you for five bloody *years*. He's a *pillock*, as far as I'm concerned. Maybe someday he'll get a chance to explain to you why he did it, and maybe he'll have had a better reason than any of the ones we've heard from the witches, but, until then? He can bugger off." 

Porthos winces —

"But — he's yours. He's yours, and I can't — I'll apologize for that in a minute," Treville says. "Just —" And he turns back to Kitos and Reynard. "Nothing's going to take me away from you two. Nothing could *keep* me away from you. I'm *yours*. And — and yeah, I'm Porthos's dog, and that means that I'm *his*, too, but that's *different*," he says, and grips Reynard's arm. "Listen, listen, I was *mostly* joking about keeping you from your ladies. I know you need women, too, all right?" 

"*Meneur* —" 

"But I'm not joking about this: This attraction that's between me and Porthos — it never has to be more than just flirting and jokes. It never does. I almost certainly won't be able to keep my fat mouth shut; I *will* make the jokes, but I won't *do* anything. I'm still more man than dog, and if that's what you need of me —" 

"I need you not to *leave* me, you *arse*." 

"I will *never* — I want to be *with* you — I want to *always* —" 

"You *don't* —" 

"I want — it would be *better* with you. With my *brothers*."

"Oh."

"Did that... make a difference?" And Treville is searching Reynard, nose up — 

He's gripping him *hard* — 

And Aramis is gripping *Porthos* hard. 

I'm right here, pet. And nothing happens without *you*. 

(That... is a very crowded bed, my Master.) 

Kitos winks at them. And waggles his bushy eyebrows. 

Porthos snorts and brings Aramis's hand to his mouth for a kiss. It doesn't have to be any bed of ours. 

(You are so *certain* —) 

I'm yours, and you're mine.

"See that, Basset? You could learn a thing or two from your boy." 

"It could help with your being-an-arsehole problem," d'Artagnan says. 

"Oh, non, non," Reynard says, and drapes himself over Treville again — 

Licks his ear — 

Treville grins, wild and dark and *hungry* — 

"If notre meneur became too kind, too *warm*?" And Reynard licks his ear again — 

Treville growls and turns and *sucks* Reynard's tongue — 

Reynard hums and turns the kiss deep, wet, and just a little *nasty* — (A kind meneur has *definitely* been spending too much time with his Porthos...) 

"He *might* have simply been spending time with your own Kitos," Athos says. 

Kitos brings one finger to his lips. "Watch that, lad. He hasn't noticed, yet, and the shock might kill him." 

Reynard and Treville snicker into their kiss — and simultaneously reach for Kitos, who blushes like a boy before standing and leaning over to join it gently — 

Until he gets yanked into something much harder. 

Eventually, Kitos grips them both by the backs of their necks and holds them still while he goes back and forth between them, sipping from their mouths and kissing them, making love to them, grinding in with his magnificent beard and making them *feel* him. 

By the time Kitos sits down again, both Treville and Reynard are reddened and dazed — and grinning. 

Porthos grins right back at them. "All right? Better?" 

"Ah, oui," Reynard says. "I will seduce your Aramis —" 

Aramis *coughs* — 

Reynard winks — "And then we will all make love. Messy, sticky, doggy — notre chien will tie me this time?" 

Treville immediately looks even more dazed and *stupid* — 

And Athos clears his throat. 

Twice. 

Everyone comes to attention — 

"Ah, God, there's no *Laurent* in this world," Treville says, and looks — 

Exactly like a man who'd lost a brother. 

Porthos winces — he can *feel* Aramis and d'Artagnan doing the same. 

Kitos and Reynard share a *hollow*-eyed look — 

And, after a moment, Athos takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I cannot give you my father. I can give you... practically nothing of him. But. I want you all to know that I would be honoured and appreciative to have anything of him that *you* could share." 

Porthos nods, and he knows the others are, too — 

Treville gives them a *desperate* look — 

And the *feel* of Athos is rueful from behind Aramis. "It would be a gift, Treville. It would be... a resurrection." 

Treville winces and shudders — 

Reynard *grips* him — 

Kitos gets back onto the bed to hold him, *too* — 

To *rock* him — 

"He — he taught me *everything*!" 

Porthos bites his lip and nods — 

"So much — so many people *dismiss* him, because he's so fussy, so *formal* — he's a bloody *killer* —" 

"Aye, he is —" 

"Si dangereux — we were alone against *ten* Spaniards — he killed *seven*."

"And it's not — it's not even a matter of getting him *started*," Treville says. You *tell* him there's an enemy *somewhere* and he's already plotting *mayhem*. Really bloody *efficient* mayhem —" 

"That's *right*," Kitos says. "Oh, lad," he says to Athos, "did you ever get to see him when he had his rapier and dagger?"

"I — not in battle —" 

"No, 'course not, but —" 

"He... trained me. He was incredible. It was actively humiliating to try to learn from him —" 

Treville barks a laugh — and there are tears rolling down his cheeks even as Kitos rocks him. "He humiliated *all* of us all the bloody *time* when we were coming up." 

"Even after we were inducted into the Army," Kitos says — 

"Even after we were given our *commissions*," Reynard says — 

"We don't talk about that," Treville says, and sniffles — 

And laughs more — 

And *sobs* — "Ah, *fuck* —I — and this is bloody *horrible*, but a part of me started grieving for my Amina-love when I stopped being able to *feel* her, when we bloody *got* here, and then there were all the stories, everything that had *happened*, but — I — "

Reynard turns in against him and kisses his cheeks — 

Treville *grips* him — 

Kitos squeezes him harder — 

He's flushed hard above his beard, and his eyes are red and wet — "You have to understand, lads — Basset was always Laurent's special pet." 

"His *project*." 

"His *love*," Kitos says. "You should've seen the way Laurent would look at him just before dragging him off for 'punishment details' and 'special training'. We all thought... well..." 

Treville coughs another laugh — 

Sobs again — "These arseholes would tease me *bloody* for making time with the Lieutenant — and then the Captain —"

Athos hums. "I... Thomas used to ask me horrifyingly unanswerable questions about what I thought about how 'close' the two of you were —" 

Kitos splutters and sniffles — 

Reynard gasps — "He did? Good boy!" 

Treville gives Reynard a half-hearted shove.

"Oh, don't you start, Fearless. You know you would've gobbled his knob in a heartbeat if he'd ever pointed it at your mouth —"

"Oh my God." 

Porthos is reasonably sure that that was the sound of Athos's mind smacking into a brick wall on its way to freedom. He *looks* at Kitos. 

Kitos blinks damply — "Oh — shit — sorry, Athos —" 

"No — I — um. I..."

Porthos waits to see if he comes up with anything — 

They're all waiting — 

They continue to... wait — no, no, that's not the way to do things. Porthos clears *his* throat, nice and manly and professional, like — 

Treville smiles at him so *softly* — 

He's still *weeping* steadily — 

And — 

"Right, I think we all need to admit that we've nothing good to say here," Porthos says. 

Kitos nods judiciously. "That's fair."

Porthos looks up — d'Artagnan is nodding and rubbing his undoubtedly-sweaty palms on his thighs — 

Athos is sighing in relief — 

And Reynard is laughing quietly and ruefully — 

"I think," Aramis says, in that *dangerous* voice — 

"Pet —" 

"I think we *should* talk about Treville's more romantic and sexual feelings for Athos's father," he says.

"*Pet* —" 

Reynard snickers and blows Aramis a kiss — 

Kitos sounds like a *rockslide* again — 

d'Artagnan is choking on his own *spit* — 

And Athos is *looking* at Aramis. "I thought you liked me." 

"I *love* you, my brother, but —" 

"Sodding *hell*, pet —" 

"No, no, *listen*, simply *consider* —" 

"I'm going to start shaking you in a minute, pet —" 

"*Porthos*!" 

"I'm going to help him do it," Athos says — 

"I." And Treville's voice is hoarse, and low, and — so hungry. "I would like to talk. About Laurent. About. How I felt." He swallows. "But. I don't have to..."

Oh. Shit.

The silence that falls over the room is heavy, and thick, and *brief* — 

"Yes, you sodding do, Fearless. I'm sorry, lad. I — maybe... maybe you and your d'Artagnan can —" 

"We're staying right here," Athos says. "Or. Wait. I'm sorry, d'Artagnan, I don't mean to —" 

"We're staying right here! Wait — are you sure —" 

"I'm certain," Athos says. "I. I. I had one brother, and then he was stolen from me. Then, somehow, I had two new brothers I did exceedingly little to deserve. Then you came to us, d'Artagnan, and I had another brother, and I did even less to deserve you —" 

"*Athos* —" 

"Wait. Please." 

d'Artagnan grunts — 

And Athos takes a shuddering breath. "Thank you. I apologize. I — I have still more brothers, now, and an ability to trust..." Athos *pants* — "There is nothing hidden here." 

"That's the *problem*, Athos —" 

"No, d'Artagnan," Athos says, and the feel of him — 

He's *smiling* — 

"That's... that's every beautiful thing. Can... can you understand?" 

d'Artagnan inhales sharply. "I — no. I don't — not yet. But I'm going to try. And I *will* understand." 

"We will *all* help, little brother," Aramis says. 

"That's right, lad," Porthos says, reaching up to shake d'Artagnan's knee back and forth a bit. "We'll take care of you."

d'Artagnan laughs a little. "Don't pay attention to *me*. I'm not the one who lost their whole bloody *world*." 

Treville laughs, too, damp and rueful. "Is it wrong that all I can think about is Laurent? It must be. It *must* be —" 

"No," Reynard says — 

"Absolutely sodding not," Kitos says. "He's all *I* can think about and I don't even know how I *died* in this world." 

"Ah, oui, what *was* it, Aramis?"

"*No*," Treville says, violent and sharp. "I won't — I *can't*." 

"Easy, Fearless, you fixed it, eh? Ife *said*." 

And Treville is — pale. Bruised around the eyes. 

Staring at *Porthos* — 

Porthos nods. "You fixed it. You did, brother." 

Treville inhales sharply — and then exhales slowly.

And calms.

And... lifts his nose. "Brother? Is that... who we are? To each other?" 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "I think that's what we're going to have to work with —" 

"But if it isn't right —" 

"It's not like —" 

"I'm your *dog*, Porthos. I'm — I'm not anything else," Treville says. 

Porthos licks his lips. "Maybe not *yet*. But." 

"The other Treville. *He* was something else to you. Not just your Captain. Not just —" Treville rears back. "He was your bloody *father*?" 

"Not *really* — not *officially* —" 

"He was our father," Aramis says, smiling wryly. 

"He was most assuredly our father," Athos says, *exuding* wryness. 

Porthos nods and shrugs and nods more. "He was our father." 

"He wasn't *my* —" 

"He was your father, lad," Porthos says. "You were both just a bit shy about it." 

"Am I getting a say in anything ever again?" 

They all look at each other — 

All of them — 

Kitos looks especially interested in their opinions — 

Athos nods, once they've gone around the room a couple of times. "Yes, but not about anything of import —" 

"*Hey* —" 

Athos grins, ducking his head — 

And, when Porthos checks, d'Artagnan looks absolutely bloody thrilled about the whole thing. 

All right, then. 

He jerks his chin at Treville. "Laurent, eh? And then we'll talk about our — our Daddy-who-wasn't." 

If anything, Treville gets even more bruised. Even more — 

"Or we could —" 

"He was good to you? The other Treville?" 

Porthos blinks. "Of course. He — I trusted him *like* another brother. Like another *limb*. He was the first man I trusted who I didn't come up with in the *Court*. When we fought, we didn't fight for bloody *Louis*. We fought for *him*," he says, and he can feel the others nodding. "We would've done anything for him — in *part* because we all *knew* he'd open a *vein* for *us* any day of the week." 

"And he proved that? He *did*?" 

"He did," Aramis says, gently. "We promise." 

Athos hums again. "When... the swap happened, he was dressing me down for my drunkenness —" 

Kitos coughs — "You drink that *much*, lad?" 

"I... suspect that I'll be drinking *somewhat* less from now on —" 

"After the grief-drinking," Porthos says.

"And the celebratory drinking," Aramis says. 

"And the drinking-drinking." 

"And the post-drinking-drinking drinking." 

"Oh, yeah, can't forget that," Porthos says — 

"Kindly swim laps around the nearest lake, both of you," Athos says, and, "As I was *saying*, he was dressing me down. He was being gruff, harsh, *blunt*... and, by far, the worst part about it was the fact that I was being dressed down as much by the man who had helped to raise me — far more so than my blood-father — as I was by my Captain." 

"He was harsh to you when you were growing up —" 

"He would pretend to be, sometimes, for games," Athos says, and smiles fondly. "And sometimes Thomas would stand behind him doing impressions of his blackest scowls, screwing his beautiful face up like a mastiff's —" 

Kitos booms a laugh — 

Treville and Reynard *grin* — and Reynard leans in. "Your brother, your Thomas, did he take after Marie-Angelique?" 

"Very much so. His curls were looser, his mouth broader, and his chin less pointed, but he favoured her until the day he was murdered." 

The room stops for that — 

*Stills* — 

Athos *winces* — "I apologize —" 

Aramis reaches up to grip his thigh. "Do *not*. We are. We are sharing everything now. We *will* share everything now." 

"I — don't. I don't want to talk about this — about... my wife —" 

"Then don't," Reynard says. "*We* apologize for taking you down this road —" 

"*No* — please. I want. I've gone so long without saying Thomas's *name* —" And Athos puts his face in his hands. The "I miss him" is muffled, but clear *enough* —

And d'Artagnan is moving to hold him, to wrap himself *around* Athos — 

Good enough for now, especially since Aramis is still gripping his thigh. 

Reynard is frowning. "I cannot imagine..." He shakes his head with finality. "Porthos, mon ami, mon *frère*. How *are* you?" 

"*Me*? Me and Aramis are basically the only ones here who *haven't* lost their worlds *recently* — or had it all dragged up —" 

"Your *father*." 

"But he wasn't, really. He —" But Porthos can't finish that thought, because. 

Because he was the man who'd smiled at him from across that huge *ship* of a desk and told Porthos that he *knew* Porthos would make him proud — 

Because he was the man who was always there with a word of advice, a word of teaching, a word of *support* — 

Because he was the man — the only man — who *could* tell Porthos that everything he had learned about how to take care of himself in the Court, how to bloody *survive* in the Court, was actually worth something, actually — 

That they were all things that had *already* made him a better man, and that they were all things that would, if he let them, make him into a better *Musketeer*. 

That they would keep him alive when he was fighting to keep *other* people alive, fighting for justice and the King's Peace. 

Fighting — 

He hadn't said Porthos would be fighting for him. 

He hadn't had to, by that point. 

He — 

He just had to put those strong, hard, brutally-scarred hands up on Porthos's shoulders and *squeeze* — 

("I know you can do this, son. I know you *will* do it.") 

And he had. 

He bloody — 

He always bloody — 

Ah, fuck. 

And for long moments, Porthos can't really — hear or see or — 

He can't really get past that smiling *face* — 

So *lined* — 

So lined with care and kindness and passion and — 

Everything bloody *right* — 

And then Kitos booms another laugh. "Well, now you've done it, Porthos." 

Porthos blinks. "Wh-what?" 

"You've made our Fearless want to adopt you again." 

Porthos *coughs* — 

Wipes his *eyes* — 

Athos hands him a handkerchief — 

"Fuck, mate, you *need* that —" 

"I've started carrying two." 

Treville makes a sound like a *kicked* dog — 

"*Cher* —" 

"Amina. Used to do that for me." 

Kitos blinks. "What — why —" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "She knew perfectly well that I was in love with you arseholes. And —" 

"You'd weep? With *her*?" Kitos sounds — 

"Are you *offended*?" 

"*I* comfort you!" 

"Not about *this*!" 

"I — fuck," Kitos says, grumbling and going back to rocking Treville. 

"You don't have to *do* that if you —" 

"Yes, I do." 

"You bloody don't —" 

"I sodding do!" 

"You —" 

"If I don't, you'll find someone *else* to do it, and maybe bloody *marry* them!" 

Silence. 

Silence — 

Reynard licks his lips and leans over to their side of the room. "We will require manacles to attach notre meneur to notre verrat, so as to prevent escapes." 

Porthos nods judiciously, while blowing his nose. 

A lot. 

Aramis is blowing his, too. He — 

Porthos blows his nose with *one* hand and cuddles his pet, his boy, his *beloved* with the other arm — 

(My Master.) 

You all right over there? 

(No.) 

Neither am I. 

(Nor are any of us, I think.) 

I don't even think our extreme sobriety is the problem at this point. 

(It is not, no.) 

This grief shite never gets better, and never gets easier, and never gets lighter to *bear* — 

(I thought...) 

Mm? No, wait — "Give us a bit, will you?" 

The others nod, and start talking quietly amongst themselves. The only privacy they'll get, from now on, and — 

And really, Porthos likes that just fine. 

By the time Porthos got *out* of the Court, it was only him, Flea, and — and bloody *Charon*, but that's not how it started. There had been *eleven* of them once, ranging in age from four to nine, running round the skirts of whatever witch Porthos could lead them to and living mostly on the witches' — and their minions' — rough charity until they were old enough to hustle in one way or another. Until they were old enough to *become* minions of one *kind* or another. 

Of course they hadn't all survived. 

They hadn't all survived the *first* winter. 

And he remembers every face, even if he doesn't remember every name. 

He — 

Every loss. 

Every bloody *death*. 

Every — 

(My Master has always needed to *rebuild* his big family,) Aramis says, and curls into him, tucking his hot face against Porthos's throat — 

Oh — fuck, I needed *this* — 

(Mm. I believe I did, as well — oh, yes, hold me, please hold —) 

Porthos squeezes him *tight* — 

Aramis *sighs* — (Thank you, my Master.) 

You are *very* welcome, Porthos says, and kisses his ear. What did you want to tell me? What were you thinking? 

Another sigh. (I will take our Reynard's example and pretend I am not telling everyone this... even as I tell everyone this. It is something I *must* tell everyone, anyway. We all must know and *be* known, yes?)

At — at your own *pace*, pet — 

(I will not slow us *down* —) 

*Pet* — 

(And. I cannot hold *this* in. Not this.) 

Porthos squeezes him harder — 

(I also cannot hold in any air...) 

Oh — shit — And Porthos eases his grip just a bit —

Aramis wheezes laughter against his throat — 

Kisses him softly again and again and again — 

(I will tell you that your Aramis was once a very great fool!) 

How's that, then? You misjudged the height of your crib and took a bad tumble?

Aramis hums — 

Kisses him again — 

*Pauses* — 

Pet...?

(I did not love my father. My blood-father, that is. When I met our Treville, he took over my mind, my soul, my...) Aramis shudders. (It took me no time at all to fantasize him into my bed, and you know very well which fantasies he walked into *first*.) 

That — Porthos *grunts*. You wanted... you wanted to be *his* boy? 

(Oh, yes. Oh, yes. But I could not let myself have that, because I had to be *big* for the *real* man, the *true* man, every day. I did not let myself fantasize that way. Of course, this made it even *harder* for me to *not* fixate on you *utterly*...) And Aramis laughs with rueful hunger. (How I need you!) 

You *have* me — 

(Never let me go!) 

I *won't* — 

Aramis moans. (My Porthos. My Master. My *Papa*...) 

The others do a *fairly* good job of keeping their noise for that *quiet*... 

And Aramis laughs darkly. (Mine.) 

*Yours*, Porthos says, and kisses Aramis's ear again, *again* — Yours bloody forever — 

(I did not love my blood-father. He is responsible for many of the scars on my legs, my hips, my arse —) 

*Fuck* — 

(Not most — the priests at the school in Épernay gave me *most* —) 

Porthos *snarls* — 

(But he sent me there, and, when I came back and *begged* to be sent anywhere else, or nowhere, at all, when I begged to be allowed to enlist, when I begged to be allowed anything like *freedom*... well. I did not love that man, and these are not the only reasons. Many children have strict parents, who only wish the best for them, no?) 

There's a whole lowering atmosphere of *mayhem* in the barracks, and it's *not* all him — Aramis — 

(I did not love that man,) Aramis says, again, (And so, when the blood-sickness took him in my seventeenth year, after he had sent me away yet again — this time to seminary, where I was grieving the loss of my *child* and the girl I wanted as my *wife* —) 

*Shit* — bloody — *Aramis* — 

(*Her* father — my Isabelle's father — he took her away. Sent her away. I do not know, even, if she is alive. The babe died, though. *That* I know. I will never forget the *particular* scent of that blood. It is different for a miscarriage, you see. It is... but. But that is another tale.) 

Oh, *love*... And Porthos can't, he — he rocks Aramis, just like Kitos is rocking Treville, and it doesn't feel like remotely *enough*, but it also feels a little better — 

(Everything you do, my Master. Everything you are.) 

I *love* you — 

(You *own* me.) 

Porthos grunts and kisses and rocks and *holds* — 

And, after a long moment, Aramis sighs again and says, (I did not grieve for my father. I did not *spit* in the direction of my former home — I refused to give even that much of myself *back* to it — but I did not grieve. I said: I will shed no tears for anyone but myself. I will *rage* for no one but myself. This grief — it is nothing. It is for *other* people, not me. 

(I spent *many* years convinced of this thing — I hardened my heart even for my Isabelle, though I did not realize this at the time. I told myself I was searching for her 'when I could', but, in truth, I had left her behind as nothing but a bitter story I told myself when I wished to *be* bitter. I *loved* her when I was a boy, and even now I want to tell you: I love her still! I would change my life for her! I would tear down everything for her! But would I? Truly?) Aramis laughs harshly. 

(She is a *tale*, my Master. And this — this is what I hate my father for the most. I do not think I was this small when my Isabelle and I were lovers —) 

"You're not bloody *small*!" And Porthos pushes Aramis *back* — 

Looks him in the *eye* —-

*Shakes* him a little — 

"My *Master* —" 

"You're bloody grieving for her right bloody *now*!" 

"No —" 

"*Yes*. You're grieving for her, you're grieving for the father you didn't get to bloody have, you're trying *not* to grieve for our *father* —" 

"*Don't* —" 

"*Aramis*. I will never bloody *rush* you. I will — oh, fuck, pet, you're so brave, you're so bold, you're so *good*. And I will not *let* you tear yourself up. I won't." 

Aramis inhales sharply. "You won't let me?" 

"*No*. You — you've been hurting for so *long*, and you been hiding this from yourself, and you've bloody had to, because you've had to hide — from your own bloody *family* —" 

"*You* are my family; I will *never* hide from you —" 

"*Don't*. *Never* do —" 

"But. You will not let me hurt myself?" And. 

That was, somehow, an honest *question*. Or. 

Maybe not somehow. 

Maybe... 

Maybe Porthos should be really *thinking* about the fact that Aramis has not *once* stopped referring to him as his *Master* — fuck. He's been doing this all wrong. "Aramis," Porthos says, low and firm.

Aramis's eyes grow heavy-lidded at once. He — 

"Oh, pet..."

"Please tell me what to do, Master." 

"Come down. Come down and breathe." 

"Oh. Yes, Master?" 

"Oh, yeah. All the way down. Just breathe." 

Aramis takes a *shivering* breath — and exhales much more smoothly. He's so *ready*. 

"That's good, pet. That's good. But you can do better." 

"Yes, Master —" 

"Shh, just breathe. Breathe all the way down." 

Aramis nods and breathes — 

And breathes — 

And relaxes, one little piece at a time. It's a little like watching Athos fight his way away from memories he *doesn't* want to talk about, but — mostly it's like watching his pet come back to him. 

All the way back. 

Aramis lowers his head. "Please tell me what to do, Master." 

Porthos cups his face. "First — you're not to tear yourself up. You're not to *hurt* yourself." 

"Not... ever?" 

"Not ever. Am I understood?" 

Aramis nods and breathes. "Yes, Master. I am yours, Master. Please, more." 

"Grieve with me. Grieve with *us*. There's — there's never been any right way to do it, as near as I can tell, though there are some wrong ways. One of those wrong ways is to do it alone, and you were *forced* to do it that way, yeah?" 

Aramis licks his lips. "Yes, Master." 

"You're not alone anymore, pet. *We're* not alone." 

"No, Master." 

Porthos cups Aramis's face with both hands, kisses him hard, *takes* his mouth — 

Aramis moans and accepts, lashes fluttering — 

Porthos pulls back and strokes up into Aramis's hair — 

Tugs *firmly* — 

Aramis smiles, loose and open — "Yes, Master...?" 

"You needed me to do this to you. You needed me to take you right down." 

"I always need it, to at least some extent." 

And that... was about as plain you can get. Porthos kisses him again. "I hear you, pet. *Precious* pet —" 

"*Nnh* — I — Papa?" 

"Whatever you need is what I *crave*." 

And Aramis's eyes are wide again, just that fast — 

Wide and so — 

"Papa... I thought. I thought, this time, I could *have* a father. A *real* father." 

And there's no keeping back the *anything* for that — 

*Athos* makes a noise — 

d'Artagnan curses low and *incoherent* — 

Treville is *whining* for them, whining and — 

And Porthos is hugging his boy, his beauty — 

Porthos is weeping like a *babe*, but he's hugging his boy. 

He knows — 

He knows he's doing this right.


	18. Ending Two, Part Three: As if their hearts would cease to beat.

One of the many beautiful things about the new facts of Athos's existence — *their* existence — is the overwhelming *certainty* of it all. 

There's so much Athos is *sure* of right now, so much he could only flounder and *guess* at mere hours ago. 

One of the things he's sure of, however, is the fact that d'Artagnan will never be entirely convinced of his *right* to his own pain. 

"'s just — I don't — I don't have anything to *complain* about —" 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"Our lives were so *good*, you know? *Comfortable*. *Warm*. We lost mum when I was four, and the baby, of course, but we did all right, just the two of us, and we had the farms, and —" 

"d'Artagnan, you —" 

"— he was always so *kind*, and so warm, and he never — he *respected* me, and he gave me everything I *wanted* — I had my own horse when I seven!" 

"*d'Artagnan*." 

"Mm?" 

"Your father was murdered in front of you; you literally have absolutely no family left other than the drunken deviants who spend all their free time turning you against all of your moral inclinations; your *surrogate* father was just ripped away from you *magically*; your lover is an uncommunicative depressive who occasionally throws jealous fits; you're incapable of relaxing because you feel *indebted* to the drunken deviants; your father was murdered in front of you; your father was murdered in front of you; and your father was murdered in front of you." 

d'Artagnan... moans. And doesn't cry. 

"You could try stabbing him next, lad," Kitos says.

"Ah, oui, oui, this is a tack that has not been fully explored." 

Everyone else is staring at Athos in horror. 

He may have miscalculated. 

Athos... licks his lips. "I'm... sorry?"

d'Artagnan stares at him like he's mad. 

Athos winces. "d'Artagnan —" 

"Were you... were you trying to make me feel *better*?" 

"I'm... not entirely sure." 

d'Artagnan licks his lips and nods slowly. "Do you... have any thoughts? About what you were trying to do?" 

"Make you... I wanted... you weren't acknowledging that you were in pain." 

"Um. I wasn't —" 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"I was feeling reasonably all *right*, Athos —" 

"You said *yourself* that you haven't let yourself —" 

"Did it *occur* to you that I might want to grieve on my own *time*?" 

Athos... licks his own lips. "I..." 

d'Artagnan smiles at him wryly. "You... I get it, I think." 

"Do you?" 

"You've spent so much time bottling this kind of thing up... and it was awful —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"But you were keeping yourself apart from everyone, Athos. I'm not," d'Artagnan says, and nods to Aramis and Porthos. "I — I couldn't. I'm just not built that way." 

"But... you haven't been *speaking* —" 

"You may have noticed that I was speaking about my father... right then. When you were interrupting me," d'Artagnan says, and grins. 

Athos winces hard. "I'm a fool." 

"You're a beginner at this — this sort of thing —" 

"Don't make *excuses* for me —" 

"— and I love you for trying. I love you for trying to make my world brighter." 

Athos grunts. "I need that. I *need* that —" 

d'Artagnan wraps his arms around Athos and squeezes him hard — 

"d'Artagnan —" 

"You do that every time you talk to me, you know. Every time you — you *include* me in your life —" 

"My life is — is *dark* and *cold* without you —" 

"Nah, you've got Porthos and Aramis —" 

"But not you, and I needed you, I *needed* you, you — you *touch* me!" 

d'Artagnan makes a small sound and squeezes him, kisses him, *kisses* him — 

"You mustn't —" 

"Shh, I want to, I always want to. You can feel that, can't you?" 

Athos groans — "I — God —" But he can. He — "I *love* you!" 

d'Artagnan smiles at him so gently. "I know that now. It's — it's so good. And I love you. I've loved you... um. Well, I don't know how long. It snuck up on me. It probably happened sometime while I was stalking you." 

Athos snorts rustily, painfully — 

d'Artagnan parts his lips — and grins. "I love that, too —" 

"Please. Please. Tell me — us — something about your father?" So I don't feel so *useless* — 

d'Artagnan moans and manages — *somehow* — to get even closer to him, to make Athos even *warmer* —

"Oh —"

And then d'Artagnan pulls back enough to look him in the eye. "I was so alone when he died. He was — he was in my *arms* —" 

"No —" 

"*Yes*. And all he could tell me was that someone named Athos had done it, had *killed* him. He didn't have any other final messages for me, he didn't tell me what to do or how to do it, he didn't tell me or show me..." And d'Artagnan swallows and trails off, staring at — not nothing. 

He's staring at his dead father. Athos holds him *back* — 

Tries not to clutch — 

Tries to be — 

To be fundamentally *competent* — 

Aramis squeezes his thigh, and Athos knows the man means to give comfort and support, but — 

No, no buts. He can feel it. 

He can feel — everything. 

Everyone in this room wants the best for d'Artagnan *and* him. 

Everyone in this room is — a brother. Someone to trust. 

Athos breathes, and kisses d'Artagnan's cheek — 

d'Artagnan shudders — "It was raining. Hard enough to wash most of the blood away. I couldn't smell it. I remember thinking that was good. That I wouldn't spook the horses. I remember thinking that with one part of my mind, while the other parts just weren't... there. It was like being in a box, with my father's body, and the mud squelching beneath us, and the people from the inn yelling... things at us, things I didn't have enough words and concepts and *intellect* to understand in my box. That stuff was in the other parts of me. The parts I couldn't reach. 

"Because they were busy screaming." 

Porthos grunts — 

"Oh, little *brother* —" And Aramis sounds so wounded, so — 

He's *gripping* Athos, and he wants Athos to *give* that to d'Artagnan — 

He does — 

And d'Artagnan swallows again, and nods, and smiles — 

"d'Artagnan —" But Athos stops, because three tears roll down d'Artagnan's cheeks — 

More — 

Athos *kisses* his cheeks — 

Tastes his salt — 

Doesn't know what to *do* with the fact that he *likes* it — 

d'Artagnan coughs a *laugh* — "It's *salt*. Of course you bloody like it, you idiot —" 

"I — hm. But you were saying —" 

"I don't — I don't — but." And d'Artagnan licks his lips and wraps his arms around Athos's neck. "This is good." 

"I think so." 

"It's good that I'm — talking." 

"Please." 

"I don't know when I stopped screaming. I — I was inside. Naked under a mass of blankets. In one of the inn's rooms. There was a fire built up... and one of the maids was sitting next to me. Nervous. Not quite touching me. There was a little voice in my head telling me that she was waiting for me to get violent. That she thought I was mad. That, maybe, they all did, and that there was a freedom in that if I wanted to take it. 

"The little voice wanted to tell me that I had nothing left. That I had *nothing* left, no real home, no family, nothing of any *worth* since the King's taxes were eating it all away anyway, and, without my father, I couldn't make any petition to anyone about *that*..." d'Artagnan sniffs — 

Wipes his eyes — 

"The little voice was um. Really convincing. I listened to it for a while. 

"And then I realized the maid was speaking to me. Yelling at me. Yelling — 

"She was — across the room. Trying to get me to stop screaming again. No one was at the door. They'd left the poor woman in the room alone with me, *and* all my weapons... I don't know. I don't know what they were thinking. 

"Maybe they couldn't get my weapons away from me. Maybe — 

"I sent her away. I dressed in my still-wet clothes. I — I was still in the box, but it was a little bigger, and I could — I could talk. I could. Do enough. Enough to get myself fed, and sell my. My father's horse. For a good price. 

"Enough to pay for his burial.

"Enough to get myself on my way. No one tried to talk me out of it... except for the little voice. 

"The little voice was with me for a long, long way. The whole way to Paris, until you said you were Athos, and I thought — I can do this. I can challenge this man, and his friends, if I have to, and I can die, and it can all stop —" 

Athos clutches d'Artagnan — 

d'Artagnan smiles ruefully. "Obviously, that's not what happened." 

Athos — 

Athos can only *stare* for long moments — no. No, wait. "What — what *did* happen, d'Artagnan?" 

"You — all of you — reached into my box, and crawled in with me. You made it bigger and louder and more full. You made it — you eventually knocked down all the walls, until I was a part of the whole world again —" 

"Oh, lad..." And Porthos reaches up to rub d'Artagnan's back — 

d'Artagnan turns and smiles down at him, still crying a little — and then turns back to Athos. "You made it better. Until I could... think about my father again. In bits and pieces. It's still hard... it's still hard. But I know you're all here with me. I know I have a family." 

Athos growls — "You *do*." 

"That's *right*," Porthos says — 

"*Always*, little brother —" 

"And," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. "You have some extra, too." 

Reynard and Kitos nod — 

And Reynard smiles crookedly. "You did not ask for us, but... we are here." 

"And we'll be here, eh?" And Kitos takes a breath — "If you let us... if you let us —" 

"If you let *him*, he'll take care of you better than anyone," Treville says. "And make him *extremely* happy. 

Kitos coughs and blushes — 

d'Artagnan grins a little. "I'd picked that up. I um. I don't know how well I'd do at letting other people take care of me —" 

"It's not. It's not *easy*," Treville says, smiling wryly. "It hurts, and it makes you feel small in some pretty terrible ways sometimes, makes you feel weak —" 

"Sodding — *Fearless* —" 

"Give me a minute, Kitos, I promise I'm going somewhere important with this, all right?" 

Kitos frowns *blackly* — and nods. 

Treville nods and smiles ruefully, tugging on Kitos's frankly incredible beard before turning back to d'Artagnan. "It's like this. You can't help feeling like less of a man — less of *yourself* — when you let someone take care of you. Right?" 

d'Artagnan nods. 

"But it still feels *good*, right?" 

"Yeah, and that's the problem —" 

"Wrong," Treville says. "You're wrong, and I'll tell you why," he says, and he's getting hoarse again, but he's obviously excited, and he leans in, covers puddling at his hips.

d'Artagnan's smile quirks on his face. "All right. Tell me." 

"It feels *good* to be taken care of. It feels *good* to *you* to be coddled a bit. Now, I don't know *how* you like to be coddled, but that's not important. The important thing is that *you* know, and you have a fair idea of other ways that you'd like to be coddled that haven't been tried, yet, but you just haven't said anything about them. Right?" 

d'Artagnan wags his head a little. "All right, I can go with that." 

"Right. So, that means, plain and simple, you're the kind of person who likes to be taken care of. You're the kind of *man* who likes to be taken care of — don't say anything, yet." 

d'Artagnan closes his mouth. 

"Here it is: That means that it *can't* make you less of yourself, because it *is* yourself. See?" 

d'Artagnan frowns. 

"And you're about to say that it makes you less of a man, aren't you," Treville says, and grins. 

"*Yes*." 

"No," Treville says — 

"But you just *said* —" 

"I was wrong. I'm wrong every bloody time. Here's why: If it made you less of a man *to be who you are*, then the most *true* men in the world would be the biggest *liars* in the world. The biggest *arseholes* in the world. The biggest *pillocks* in the world. And? We *know* that's not true. They're not men! They're not even bloody worth being called *people*. I've had fleas who were better companions!" 

d'Artagnan splutters — "I — all *right* —" 

"Are you going to argue with me?" 

"You made sure that I *couldn't* —" 

"All *right*, then —" 

"But *you* still grizzle and fight whenever people try to take care of you —" 

"I'm an idiot!" 

Porthos looks up at d'Artagnan, who is, at this point, simply staring. "He's got you there, lad." 

Kitos nods and combs through his beard. "He's also an arsehole. You said it yourself." 

"I." d'Artagnan splutters more. "All right. All *right* —" 

Treville grins. "Yeah? You'll let your brothers take care of you?" 

"*Yes*, and —" 

Athos takes the opportunity to tackle d'Artagnan to the bed — 

Porthos and Aramis are right there to help — 

"Fuck — *fuck* — I can't — what are you arseholes — *FUCK* —" 

It takes some effort to get d'Artagnan properly pinned — he's always been an excellent fighter — but with Porthos locking his legs, Aramis locking his arms, and Athos with the expanse of his torso — 

His somewhat bruised torso — 

His leathers are open and his shirt is rucked up — 

Athos kisses the nearest bruise — 

"Oh — I like that —" 

"Good," Athos says. "Are you comfortable?" 

d'Artagnan looks at him as if he's mad again, but then his expression turns thoughtful. 

Athos waits — 

"Well... actually, yes. Resentful, but comfortable." 

Athos — smiles. Helplessly.

And d'Artagnan lets his eyes slip most of the way closed and leans in — 

Athos kisses him — 

Tastes *tears* — 

He doesn't like them as much this way — but. 

It's a kiss, and he can change it. He bites his own lip — 

(Are you *bleeding* into — you're so *weird* — I *love* you —) 

Then everything is better, brighter — I want you to have all of me — 

(I don't have to actually *eat* you —) And d'Artagnan is laughing into the kiss, kissing him *harder*, sucking Athos's bleeding lip — 

I want to eat you alive — 

(Just not my tears?) 

Everything — 

And d'Artagnan pulls back — but only long enough to bite his own lip — 

Athos kisses him down to the bed, sucks, takes — 

"We might have to supervise these two, precious," Porthos says — 

Aramis only hums — 

"Oh, precious, no." 

"Papa —" 

"Precious, we're not *bleeding* each other —" 

"It's only that we could become *one* with each other. I could have you *in* me at all *times*." 

"I could just bloody pierce your *ear*!" 

Aramis gasps. "Oh, Papa!" 

And d'Artagnan hums into Athos's mouth, as pleased as Athos is by Aramis's pleasure — 

By Kitos's pleasure in Porthos — 

By Treville's *possessive* pleasure in Porthos — though. That is still somewhat more difficult. 

(It is, but he *is* Porthos's dog, Athos.) 

No one who has ever known Porthos — truly known him — for any length of time has ever managed to *not* want to belong to him, at least a little — 

"*Oi*." 

Athos hums and *licks* d'Artagnan's mouth, licks at the salt, the metal, the faint sweetness — 

"*Athos* —" 

You already know my fantasies of you were legion, Porthos. 

"But *belonging*. That's *different* —" 

You might've owned me with a kiss. 

(And left me out in the cold,) d'Artagnan says, and sucks Athos's seeking tongue — 

"And me, Papa..." 

"*No* —"

That is *deeply* unlikely, Athos says, and *fucks* d'Artagnan's mouth once, twice — 

Again — 

Again — he pulls back. 

d'Artagnan grunts — 

"There isn't *anything* that could keep me away from you, precious," Porthos says — 

"I find I must concur with Porthos," Athos says, and doesn't look away from d'Artagnan's brown eyes, warm eyes, wide eyes — 

And then something *stings* in his lip — 

Something — 

d'Artagnan *jerks* beneath him — "What — what was that —" 

Treville laughs... obnoxiously. 

Athos turns to look at him — 

He lolls his *tongue* — 

It reaches down past his *chin* — 

He's still *laughing* — 

Until Kitos smacks him. 

Then he *rolls* his tongue back into his mouth, grins — "Feel where you bit your lips, lads. Go on." 

Athos feels the *blood* drain from his face — but. He does it. And he's healed. Not completely — there's still a bit of unevenness to the flesh — but — 

"What the — how —" 

"We're *bound*," Treville says. "We're..." He laughs more — and coughs. 

"Meneur, are you —" 

"I'm fine, Reynard. But I'd like to ask you lads not to do anything *exciting* to yourselves until I'm *entirely* back on my feet and can handle you drawing on my energy to heal yourselves — though." 

"What is it, Fearless?"

Treville narrows his eyes — and points to his pile of clothes on the bed behind Reynard. "My jackal's in there. I can heal myself up a bit with it —" 

"You're still not getting out of that bloody bed, yet!" 

"*Yes*, Nanny —" 

Kitos smacks him again — 

"*Thank* you, Nanny —" 

Kitos smacks him *again* —

And Treville snickers... precisely like the arsehole he is. While Reynard hands him his jackal. "*There* we are," he says, and grips it in his right hand — 

And obviously concentrates — 

"Bloody — *how* many people died here?" 

"Eight," Athos says. "And when you three enlist as the most suspiciously talented recruits ever to be seen here —" 

"*Merde*, I hadn't considered —" 

"Oh, fuck —" 

"— you'll get to hear *all* the gory details." 

"Repeatedly!" d'Artagnan says. "Can I get up yet?" 

"Oh, no, little brother," Aramis says — 

"It's just not safe," Porthos says. 

"Not at *all*," Aramis says. 

"Treville's doing magic over there, you see." 

"We must protect you!" 

"And *care* for you," Porthos says, and nods judiciously. 

"Oh, yes —" 

"Right, so, this place needs to be fucked in at least once a week," Treville says, setting the jackal down on the bedside table and stretching. "For a good few months, I'm thinking." 

"Done. Who sells the best pomade around here, lads?" And Kitos raises his eyebrows at them. 

Athos stares. He knows he's not alone. He — no. "*Why*?" 

"Well, the people who died here died *badly*, didn't they? Blood-sickness or something?" 

"Blood-sickness, yes," Aramis says, "but what —" 

"Too much death in one enclosed space, surrounded by a whole lot of violence — and no women, no life-givers, animals all pent-up when they're not being slaughtered... look, I'm still learning about this sort of thing, myself, but it's not good," Treville says and waves a hand, already looking much stronger and less pale. "It needs positive things. Good things."

"Fucking," Porthos says. 

"Lots of it," Treville says, and looks Porthos over seemingly helplessly — 

Reynard snorts. "Mon chien is *predictable*." 

"What? Oh — shit —" 

"Our Basset has *also* managed to avoid talking about Laurent." 

"What — I have —" 

Porthos grins and settles d'Artagnan's legs on his lap. "Your *feelings*, mate." 

And — much of Treville's colour... goes. "I loved him. I — of course I loved him," he says, looking at — something else. "I loved him when I was fourteen, and he *was* our nanny, and we treated him just..." He shakes his head. "He had to scruff Kitos and me practically every *day*, and I wanted *more*. I wanted — 

"I wanted him to put me on my knees and *keep* me there. I wanted." Treville coughs a laugh. "Your father, Athos. His *command* was just... what was he like with you and your brother? I bet he was the most gentle, sweet, fussy..." 

"He was... very correct," Athos says, and tries to ignore his own blush. "But... he was warm, as well. He was never... there was never any doubt in my mind that he loved and respected us. That we were the children he wanted us to be, for all our idiosyncrasies. I... I'm not... he didn't want me to be a Musketeer, however." 

Treville blinks. "But... why — no. You were the firstborn. He would've wanted Court for you." 

"Yes —" 

"And — was Thomas a soldier?" 

Athos coughs... something like a laugh. The earth doesn't swallow him — and Aramis has released one of d'Artagnan's arms, which he uses to steady Athos. "Thomas was the most perfect courtier... well. Neither of us had the heart to tell Father that we fully intended to upend his plans for us once Thomas had reached his full maturity and *could* take the place I was entirely failing to fill at Court. And then, of course, he and Mother were in that carriage accident..." Athos frowns. "Thomas and I had a moment of gratitude that we wouldn't have to disappoint him. It passed quickly." 

Treville searches him with his nose up for a moment — 

"Treville?" 

"He didn't... pressure you, did he?" 

"Never that. And Mother didn't, either. It was more... what was expected." 

"What was *correct*." 

"Precisely," Athos says. "Father was kind. Always, always kind." And then he can't help but smile. "Sometimes I would wish he were a harder man, so that I would feel better about my urges — my *need* — to rebel. Or at least feel better about how *much* he humiliated me whenever he had a spare moment to train me." 

Treville barks a laugh. "That's... that's what I expected of him, whenever I thought of him with children — and I did, often. He's the only man I know — knew..." Treville trails off and looks *hollow* — 

Kitos holds him *tight* and rocks him — 

And Treville takes a shuddering breath and nods. "He's the only man I knew who'd be any good at children. So... even when he was scruffing me and Kitos, he was always so careful, always so *good*. Fuck, he practically — no. No. Kitos, you *know* he sodding *raised* us the rest of the way!" 

"He did, Fearless. He — even though he wasn't that *much* older than we were." 

Treville takes another breath. "He was — he was the *youngest* officer, and that's why they bloody stuck him with the recruits. It was *punishment*, because the Army is run by a bunch of idiots who don't realize that you don't treat the Army's bloody *future* like one big *shit* detail — but. Laurent didn't. Laurent — he took it seriously. He took it *all* seriously." 

"He did," Kitos says. "He made sure we knew what was what about *everything* —" 

"His recruits were the best the Army had ever *seen* —" 

"Cher..." 

Treville *growls*. "I *loved* him. I *wanted* him. I would've done any-*fucking*-thing for him at *any* time, and he never bloody *asked*. Not for — not for *anything*. Just... a little time. A little care. A little comfort..." Treville sobs. "The night we all got our commissions — he was so *emotional*. He was shaking with it, trembling. There were *tears* in his eyes, and he kept touching his brassard, and mine — 

"He kept asking me if he were dreaming, to touch him, pinch him — 

"I told him. I told him 'I'd kiss you, but then I wouldn't be sure if I were dreaming' and then he looked at me with such *wonder* and *confusion* and *dawning* comprehension..." 

Treville laughs hard, *damply* — 

"He'd never *realized*, in *seven* *bloody* *years*, that I'd wanted him to make me his *boy*. And I — well, it's not that I hadn't known that. Laurent didn't *think* like other people. He didn't — it's what made him such an *amazing* general. No one could out-think him, because no one could ever figure out what the bloody hell was going *on* in there!" 

Reynard coughs a laugh — 

Kitos *booms* one — "Not bloody *ever*. The *questions* he would ask —" 

"The questions he would ask *me*. I used to toss myself off in his tent — when he called me in for punishment, separating me from Kitos, back when we were regular Army — oh, fuck. At first it was just to see if I could brass him off, but of course it didn't. He just ignored me, or tossed *himself* off, which made me go off like *artillery*, which made him ask me *questions*. About my *technique*. And what I liked *best*. And whether I thought this way, or *that* way or the *other* way was *better*." 

Reynard *chokes* on a laugh — 

Kitos is *wheezing* — 

d'Artagnan is trying *not* to laugh — 

Aramis and Porthos are snickering like boys — 

Athos... can only stare. And try to — 

Try *not* to — 

"And then, of course, he found out that I was a buggerer," Treville says, shaking his head and laughing. "And I thought — well, here's my chance! But no. Because there was my chance to be asked about two *years* worth of questions *about* buggery, and the *history* of buggery, and *why* I liked buggery, and did I *really*, and had I heard *this*, and what about *that*, and had I ever *tried*, and what about women? Didn't I think women were beautiful? What about that woman we'd seen while on the march?" 

Kitos is bright red and booming again — 

Reynard is *crying* with laughter — 

"It made the tossing-off somewhat stressful, but *extremely* interesting." 

"You." Athos didn't mean to make a sound. But — 

"Yeah, brother?" And Treville is smiling at him wryly. 

"I... you managed to masturbate even while being *interrogated* by my father?" 

"Nightly! Sometimes two or three times if he was *vigorous* about it." 

"I." 

Treville laughs. "You can get used to *anything* if you're dedicated, brother," Treville says. 

"Or in love," Reynard says, and his eyes are soft. 

Treville shivers. "Or — that." He frowns and turns to Reynard. "Why. Why aren't you... jealous." 

"He was my brother, too. Even though he did not raise me. Even though..." Reynard shakes his head. "He took me in. He took me *away* from the regiment I was in where I had *no* brothers. No..." He smiles wryly. "My regiment, they were not so kind to the buggerers they discovered." 

Treville grunts — 

"There were... deaths. Murders. It was considered... a bonding activity. The same men who would brutally rape the prettier — or simply *slower* — young recruits would do the same to the adult men who shared love — true love and brotherhood — with other men. And then beat them so badly that they could not do their duties. And then report them for dereliction, so that they would be punished further. 

"Whipped, sometimes. 

"Or, if they felt like it, or were drunk enough, they would simply beat and rape the men to death." 

Kitos *snarls* — 

Porthos and Aramis look ready to murder the entire corrupt regiment — 

d'Artagnan is shaking his head — 

Treville — stares. "Reynard..." 

"I... did not know myself. I did not. But I knew I didn't want *that*. I knew that..." Reynard bares his teeth. "I knew that the men I wanted to have at my *back* were, most often, the men who were being killed by my so-called *brothers*. 

"I considered desertion.

"I slashed some few throats in the dark, made it *look* like certain men had deserted..." And Reynard licks his lips and sighs. "And then, one day, Laurent came. And he asked for the best men. And then he asked me — and perhaps those other men, too — how I felt about buggerers." 

Treville whines — 

Reynard smiles. "I told him the truth — as I knew it. I told him that *I* was no buggerer, but that I did not care what two men did in the dark, so long as it hurt no one else. I told him I knew of far worse sins — many of them committed by preachers and other 'good Christians' in the *light*. I told him that. That if having said that hurt my chances to join this new unit that everyone was talking about? Then that new unit could drown in its own *shit*. I was. I was stone inside. But the stone was burning, you see? I spat at his feet," Reynard says, and laughs ruefully. "He smiled at me.

"It was the first time he had smiled since he'd joined our unit. I had not thought his face worked that way! I realized, then — much too late — that this was an *important* question to him. I wondered if, somehow, this Laurent d'Achille de la Fère, this *comte*, was a buggerer himself. 

"I wondered what I was *doing*. 

"And then he told me to expect a summons... and left. I was... I felt true hope, for the first time since I came across Anton's ravaged body and realized that there was no true honour in the French Army. I... Laurent gave that to me.

"He gave that to me many times, in many ways, even though I *habitually* disobeyed his orders and forced him to dress me down and give me punishment details and otherwise... he never once made me feel like any *less* his brother, his *family* than Kitos and Treville, once they made me a part of them. He *welcomed* me, and asked me... to welcome him. I could do nothing else.

"When I received my commission, and I threw away my name and my past with joy and ease, I said to myself: 'Reynard, you will look to this Laurent. You will see who *he* favours. And you will make brothers of those men, even if you cannot make them friends.' 

"He kissed Kitos on the mouth and both cheeks as soon as the ceremony was over. He *gripped* notre meneur as if his heart would cease to *beat* if they were ever *separated*. My choices were made! Of course, he did not let *go* of notre meneur that night..." 

Kitos laughs. "At *all*, apparently. What *happened* after you ever so *gently* floated that proposition past him and he finally figured out why you'd been waving your cock in his face for seven years?" 

Treville stares at Reynard for another few silent moments —

"Ah, cher, do not let this make you think of me *differently*, s'il te *plait* —" 

"Reynard — " 

"I can see, you are thinking of *pitying* me —" 

"Not — not *that* —" 

"You are thinking 'poor Reynard, so lost, so *bound* in *gaol*' —" 

"All right, some of that —" 

"Pity the men who *died*, meneur. Pity the men who died before I could murder their *murderers*." 

"I. I'm never going to stop hurting that my brother had no brothers of his own." 

Reynard grins savagely. "I was being forged. I was being *prepared*." 

"For —" 

Reynard *yanks* Treville's hand close and puts *his* hand in it — 

Treville closes his hand around Reynard's seemingly reflexively — 

"I was being *prepared*, meneur. To be wielded by the *best*." 

And Treville's eyes are just as wild and savage for a *long* moment — "*Toujours*." 

Reynard licks his teeth. "Toujours pas *assez*." 

Treville winds Reynard's long hair around his fist, *yanks* his head back, and *bites* his throat — 

Reynard groans — 

Pants and groans *more* — 

Treville sucks *loudly* — 

Reynard *laughs* — 

Kitos blows out a breath and turns to *them* — "What you have to realize is that this is basically no different from how they act when they're *not* making time with each other." 

"We *noticed*," d'Artagnan says. 

Porthos nods judiciously. 

Aramis smiles and says, "It is making my Papa and me feel very responsible and discreet." 

d'Artagnan *coughs* — 

Porthos winks at him — 

And Treville pulls back from Reynard once he's left a truly obvious suck-mark sprawling all over the lower left portion of his throat. "You're bloody delicious." 

"Merci..." And Reynard licks *his* lips — 

Treville growls and *lunges* — 

Kitos scruffs him. 

"Fucking *hell* —" 

"You know," Athos says, "your speed is quite remarkable, considering your size." 

Kitos smiles meanly — and gives Treville a shake — 

"You *arse* —" 

"He gives me a lot of practice, naughty Basset that he is," Kitos says and sets Treville down. 

Treville grumbles.

Treville lifts his nose and *leans* toward Reynard — 

"Cross your legs, fox-face." 

Reynard crosses his legs. 

Treville whines. 

"Clear your throat, Athos." 

Athos opens his mouth —

"Oh, God, don't! Fuck!" Treville blinks and *obviously* comes out of his lust-haze — "God, I — *all right*. There is — he —" Treville licks his lips. "He stared at me, finally, in *wonder*. As if it was the most *incredible* thing that I could — want him. Love him. Need him —

"Ah, fuck, no — don't make me —" 

"Fearless?" 

Treville growls and covers his face with both hands. And then simply breathes raggedly for long moments. 

Kitos and Reynard hug him again, and rock him — 

And, after a moment, they can all see... a pub. 

The fireplaces are both lit, but their table is far from either one. Still, there's a fat candle burning on the table, and it's easy to see their two full brandies — the bottle itself is mostly full — and — 

His father. 

His father with no beard, only a moustache with no grey in it — 

His father blinking and staring and — wondering. 

_"Treville...? Are you... you. You desire me."_

_Treville's laughter is both ribald and nervous — he's *using* the ribaldry to *cover* the nervousness. "I knew you'd notice eventually..."_

_"That... that is the most incredible *thing*."_

_"Is it?"_

_"I never considered..."_

_"Laurent —"_

_"I never thought —"_

_"I knew that —"_

_"But — how *long*, brother?"_

_The silence is heavy. Pregnant._

_It lasts._

_And *lasts* —_

_"Brother...? Will you tell me?"_

_"I feel... as though I've told enough secrets," Treville says, and laughs falsely._

_"Oh — but — not like that. Please don't lie to me. Please — I'll tell you anything you'd like to know; you *must* know that by *now* —"_

_"Tell me..."_

_"Yes?"_

_Treville's hand is visible as he lifts his brandy —_

_He drinks —_

_They all feel the warmth of it —_

_They all feel him wishing/remembering wishing for a *burn* —_

_"Tell me if you'd like a *kiss*, Laurent," Treville says, and his voice is cracked, hoarse, angry —_

_"Brother? Are you — upset?"_

_Treville growls and the perspective changes —_

_Treville is standing —_

_"Brother —"_

_"I — need to go —"_

_"Don't — wait — you don't have to — please don't — not. Tonight."_

_"Laurent..."_

_His father looks confused, alarmed, *lost* and *losing* — "Brother — if I've hurt you — I don't — I'm not —" He licks his lips. "I've never... understood that sort of... affection —"_

_"I know that. I knew that. I'm sorry —"_

_"No — no. Somehow, the two of us have never been quite this plain about —"_

_"Please don't —" And Treville sits down again, and pours himself another brandy, and drinks it —_

_And pours himself another, and drinks that —_

_"I apologize," he says, in a calm and formal voice. "That was... inexcusable."_

_"Brother, *no*. You — your passion —"_

_"Why don't we avoid talking about my passion for... a little while. Hm?"_

_And his father *searches* Treville —_

_He looks *hurt* —_

_He looks... unfinished._

_Treville pours himself another brandy. "Come, brother. Talk to me about the *regiment*. You're going to be a lieutenant — *again* —"_

_"I —"_

_"What are we going to be doing about recruiting now that we've skimmed the cream from the Army, hm?"_

_His father blinks —_

_Blushes —_

_"I've... had some ideas about that."_

_"I thought you might have..."_

The images fade until they're all looking at each *other* again, and — 

And. 

"Treville..." Porthos's voice is low and pained. 

"I know. I know."

"Do you?" 

"I didn't. I couldn't." Treville drags his hands down off his face. "I couldn't give him another chance to hurt me. I couldn't. And I also couldn't *let* myself..." He shudders. "I saw that look in his eyes just as clear as you lads did. I wasn't drunk. I knew that maybe, with a little convincing... I couldn't let myself do that, either. Not... not if he didn't even know if maybe, *maybe* he'd like to touch a man sometime." 

And Athos... lets himself think... 

Not *of* her, but *around* her, just for a moment. 

Lets himself think of the empty — but not terrible, not sad, not lonely — time *before* her, when there simply wasn't anyone he desired, simply wasn't anyone, at all, he wanted to touch. 

And then he thinks of Father. 

("Oh, Olivier, the very *concept* of marriage was — if you'll pardon the blasphemy — *anathema* until the day I actually *met* your mother. There will be *someone*, son. We'll find her together.") 

And then he *stops* thinking those thoughts, as fast as he can, as *hard* as he can, because — 

But. 

It's too late. 

Treville is staring at him. 

Treville is staring at him the way — 

Oh, no — "I... take it that those thoughts... answered questions?" 

"He... Laurent never went with *anyone*. He never *wanted* to. He never — no women, at all. No *girls*. He never *looked* at — ah, *fuck* — ah, *fuck* — I didn't give him a bloody *chance* to — ah, *fuck* —" 

Kitos and Reynard hug him *tighter* — 

And Treville croons, low and hurt, for some moments. 

After a while, he begins to gasp between croons — 

Moan — 

And then:

"I knew him — I knew him in his absences. He was... I *was* his special bloody pet. I *was* his little brother. I *was* his special bloody project. I went out to the manor all the time, and we all knew that *when* Laurent was Captain someday, I would be the one going out to the manor to pay his respects, and half-raise whatever children he managed to get on Marie-Angelique. 

"But I knew him in his absences.

"That night — the night we got our commissions — was the *last* time he really *demanded* my time, or even asked for it without asking for the others, too. It was always *me* going to *him* after that. At first to check, to see if I was still *wanted*, and when he made it abundantly clear that I was... 

"When he looked at me like I was bringing food to a *starving* man... well, I just kept coming." 

"But there were... we got into rhythms. There would always come a point when the conversation would hit a natural lull, and then, at some point, instead of moving to the next topic, he would — jokingly — dismiss me. Or I would say something about Kitos and Reynard, and *then* he would jokingly dismiss me. 

"The only time this wasn't the case was when I *was* at the manor, and we would... stay up all night. Sometimes he'd start talking about Marie-Angelique with this... *desperation* in his eyes, like he was trying to tell me something he wasn't actually saying with his mouth... I don't know. I don't know. He loved your mother like a limb, Athos. Like a weapon that never failed him. Like a *brother*. I loved her, too. She was bloody perfect for him. So *strong*. So witty and bold and *smart*. I always thought she and my Amina would've gotten on, even though they came from such different worlds..." Treville groans again and shakes his head. 

"Sometimes we went days without seeing each other for more than a nod and a smile, a rueful headshake as he watched Kitos scruff me and drag me away from one bit of trouble-making or another. He.

"It's just that I recognize, now, that he gave me up," Treville says, hoarse and hungry. "I — or not that. Or something like that. I made him think, somehow, that he didn't have the right to snatch me up himself. That he didn't have... whatever he thought he needed to have in order to reach out and — take. So. He was waiting for me. 

"And when I didn't do it, he sent me away again." And then he stops, and shudders, and — stops. 

The silence that falls this time is lighter than the last, but it doesn't deserve to be.

"I think, perhaps, you should not take on more grief than is your share, friend Treville," Aramis says, after a moment.

Treville barks a pained laugh. "What's my share, then?" 

"A lost brother. A lost *sister*. A lost *world*. This, I think, is enough, without *assuming* you have *also* squandered a chance for love." 

"You *heard* Athos —" 

"I did, friend Treville, I did," Aramis says, and raises his hands for peace. "But it is the truth of this situation, yes? We cannot look into Laurent's mind. We have no way to *know*." 

"I *knew* him —" 

"Not well *enough*." 

Treville makes a sound like a kicked dog again — 

"*That* is your loss," Aramis says. "*That* is your grief. Please do not take more. Do not — brother, your pain is already so great." 

"I won't — I won't whinge —" 

"That's *not* the *problem*, mate," Porthos says, and folds his hands on one of d'Artagnan's legs. "You're barely talking enough as it *is*. I *promise*." 

"But —" 

"*But* you're going to spend your life *hating* yourself for this if you're not careful. And — I think I'm getting to know you pretty well at this point," Porthos says. 

"I — you should. I'm your *dog* —" 

"Yeah, you are. And my *dog* won't hate himself for the missed chance. My *dog* is going to hate himself for denying his brother pleasure and comfort and love and affection —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"*But you don't know that you did*. And? You never will." 

Treville makes that terrible sound again. And tears himself out of Kitos's and Reynard's arms — 

"*Fearless* —" 

"I — I need —" 

"Yeah, you do," Porthos says, easing out from under d'Artagnan — 

They stand and *move* to each other — and Porthos pulls Treville into his arms, holding him close — 

"I need, I need — please let me —" 

"Do it, 's all right, just — fuck, that tongue is not even a *little* bit human —" 

(Neither am I, technically...) And Treville keeps licking Porthos's throat and chin, his cheek and upper chest — 

His mouth — 

Porthos licks him back — 

Treville rumbles, but doesn't pause to take advantage. He *plasters* himself against Porthos and *grips*. "I needed this. I needed this, and I tried not to think about, I tried not to... to..." 

"You were going spare, I know it, you should've said —" 

"Your Treville must've been — so strong —" 

"That's not strength," Porthos says, and starts *petting* Treville. "We can call it bloody-mindedness, though. Right? We can definitely agree our Treville was more bloody-minded than this one?" 

d'Artagnan wags his head and nods — 

Athos nods, as well — 

"Oh, yes, Papa. It all but leaked from his ears!" 

"That's gruesome, precious —" 

"I thank you!" 

Porthos laughs hard and keeps petting Treville. "You needed this right from the start, yeah?" 

"As soon as the swap happened. I — I felt that you were *apart* from my Amina-love, and I had to get you back to her, had to know you were safe, had to *feel* you safe..." 

"And this has just been building and building — right, let's not do that again. Touching all the time, all right?" 

Treville rumbles and rumbles — stops. "Reynard? Kitos? Are you...?" 

Reynard and Kitos turn to look at each other wryly — and then Reynard turns back. "Ça va, meneur. But if you *must* leave my arms for Porthos's, please *try* not to *tear* yourself away, mm?" 

"*That*, right there, Fearless." 

They all *feel* Treville wince —

And Kitos thunders laughter. "That's all right, Basset. Now we know that when we want extended cuddle-time, all we have to do is travel the spheres until you're bleeding from all your orifices and make you weep for three hours. We're all set!"

Treville laughs hard — 

Pulls back far enough to lick Porthos's collarbone again — 

And then presses close once more, letting Porthos rock and turn him slowly and gently. 

After a time, Treville's breathing evens and steadies and slows to something almost like sleep. 

So does Porthos's. 

Athos isn't the least bit surprised when his lip finishes healing.

Sooner or later, they're going to have to make concrete plans on how to enlist Treville's exceedingly talented 'bastard' — and his two equally-talented friends. 

Sooner or later, they're going to have to *leave* the plague barracks that have become, despite themselves, a kind of home. 

But Porthos still has Treville in his arms — 

And Aramis has crossed the room to join Kitos and Reynard on their bed, one hand on Kitos's beard and the other on Reynard's thigh — 

And d'Artagnan is in Athos's arms, in his arms somehow *again* — 

And 'sooner or later' is not now. 

end of ending two.


	19. Ending Three: The right decision.

"Brother? What are you doing here? How did you *get* here?" 

And — 

It's not that Treville is unfamiliar with the vagaries of the spheres — he's forty-eight bloody years old, and he's spent over *half* that time as a *respectably*-powered earth-mage — but the fact of the matter is that he's in *Laurent's* office, not his own — 

And Laurent is *here*, not dead — 

And Laurent looks *exactly* like he did when he was still in his *early* thirties — 

And this is — 

Is — 

"Brother, are you well?" 

This can only be a limited number of things, especially since his glamour of years *must* be down — *he* can't possibly look older than his mid-twenties at *best*, given —

And now Laurent is coming to him, crossing the small distance — 

"Brother, you look *hunted*. What's wrong?" 

And — he has a decision to make. 

He has — 

Oh, bloody hell. No, he doesn't. 

No. He. *Doesn't*. 

He stands straight, pulls the jackal out of his breast pocket — 

"Oh — brother. Is something badly wrong? You don't usually —" 

"So you are familiar with this? My powers?" 

Laurent blinks. "Of course I am! Brother, have you taken a blow? Let me call a surgeon —" 

"No. Laurent, I'm going to tell you something incredible, but it might help ease the process of explanation if you look at me the way I tend to appear on a daily basis," Treville says, and raises his glamour — 

"*Oh*. So handsome!" 

Treville *coughs*. "Laurent." 

"You always *scold* me for appreciating your *beauty*! As if there's something *strange* —" 

"Wait. Do you *understand*?" 

"You go about as an older man, yes, but — how? Why? What are you saying?" 

"I'm not *from* here. Or, if I am, I'm from a here at *least* some twenty years in the *future*." 

Laurent raises an eyebrow and nods thoughtfully. "I have heard *tales* of that sort of witchcraft. Where do you suppose the Treville who *belongs* here is?" 

"That I can't tell you —" 

"Can't? Or won't." And Laurent *looks* at him. 

Treville stops — and grins, because — "I've bloody missed your suspicious-bastard face, *Captain*. And the answer is *can't*, because, as far as I'm aware, there *are* no witches powerful enough to exert enough control to send people backwards and forwards in time while also monitoring *exactly* when *and* where they go." 

Laurent — finally — blinks. "You didn't do this yourself." 

"No." 

"You've no idea *who* did this." 

"Not a bit of it, brother," Treville says, and shows his teeth. 

"You're... stranded?" 

"At the moment. I've *some* idea who can help me get back where I belong *if* certain things are —" 

"Do *not* be vague, Treville. This is — I can't be without my brother." 

Treville inhales — and nods. "Ife. Omolayo. Omolara. Are these names familiar to you?" 

"They're the witches who... altered Treville. My Treville." 

"And me, as well — and remember, Laurent — I might *be* your Treville." 

"Are we lovers?" 

Treville blinks. "I — what?" 

"You're not my Treville." 

"Laurent —" 

"You haven't touched me, you haven't —" Laurent shakes his head. "You speak of having *missed* me as if you come from a place where I've *died* —" 

"I do — I *am* —" 

"And yet." And Laurent looks at him — in that way. His eyes are wide, and there are two spots of hectic colour high on his cheeks. He's standing straight and tall, he's still and his breathing is steady, but. 

But Treville knows that he's screaming inside. "Laurent..." 

"Who *are* we to each other, Treville?" 

"We're *brothers*. You're my eldest brother, my dearest — you made me the godfather of your beautiful children —" 

"My — are you my *wife's* lover?" 

"*What*?" 

If anything, Laurent looks even more *wounded* — 

"Laurent, we've known everything about each other since I was a boy, we were — you used to interrogate me —" 

"At night, in my tent —" 

"For years, every time I was on punishment —" 

"About sex, because I *needed* you —" 

"I." Treville shakes his head. "You — you *interrogated* me because —" 

"Because I *needed* you, and your — it was so inappropriate, so fundamentally *incorrect*, but... you were the most beautiful of boys, the most *commanding* when you took boys for yourself —" 

"You *watched*?" 

"*Habitually*, Treville. You would take boys your same age or older. Your same size or *larger*. You would take *men* and put them on their *knees* —" 

"I *needed* that. I've always needed —" 

"Is that why you and your Laurent weren't lovers? You couldn't stomach his need for your subordination?" 

Treville *grunts* as a *lifetime* of dearly-loved fantasies fall on him as if from a great *height* — 

"Treville — answer — you must answer my *questions* —" 

"Do you have any idea how much I've *loved* being questioned by you? How much a *part* of me, and my *ideas* about sex, it became?" 

"*Yes*, because my Treville *told* me," Laurent says, advancing on Treville further — 

He looks like he wants to shake Treville for *every* answer to *every* possible question — 

Treville raises his hands for peace, and closes the distance between them willingly. 

Laurent is so bloody *tall*, and — and he *hadn't* forgotten it, but he'd tucked the memories of his size, his ability to exude command with his personality *and* his body in another part of himself — 

He — 

But he cant focus on that now. He can't — "Right. The most important thing right now, the thing I was being vague about before —" 

"*Tell* me." 

"I've been taught that time moves differently on different spheres. That just because this is all happening some twenty-odd years in the past for *me*, it doesn't mean that I didn't move *laterally* across the space of the spheres. Did that... make sense?" 

Laurent narrows his eyes, and the eyes themselves track fast and thoughtfully —"You're saying that, instead of being pulled... backwards and sideways, for lack of a better way of thinking about it, you — and presumably my Treville — may have simply been pulled sideways?" 

"Yes —" 

"And this makes a *difference* in terms of how well you'll be able to do at fixing the problem?" 

"Yes." 

"What must I do?" 

For a moment, it only hurts that Laurent wants to be rid of him so quickly, only *aches* — 

He can't keep it off his *face* — 

He can't — 

Laurent blinks. "Treville? What — no. No. You do — there *was* more between you and your Laurent. More than... than *chaste* brotherhood." 

Treville inhales with a shudder. "On — on my side — but — that's not —" 

Laurent growls and pushes a hand into Treville's *hair*, leaning in — and stopping. Right there. 

Right — 

"It's the same. It's — as the first time. You look so shocked..." 

"*Laurent* —" 

"You should never be — you should — am I your *love*?" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"*Answer*." 

"Bloody *hell*, Laurent, I wanted you to *own* me —" 

"Then I already did. Didn't I," he says, and kisses Treville, kisses him hard, deep — 

Kisses him like he knows *exactly* what Treville likes and means to give it to him — and he does. 

God help them both, but he *does*. Every bite, every suck, every hard, insinuating *fuck* — all designed to put Treville on his knees and keep him there — 

Treville *yanks* himself back —

"*Treville*," Laurent says, and — it's an order. It's always been an order when he used anything *like* that tone, but now Treville knows — 

Now Treville can hear the *hunger*. 

The need for his very, very specific obedience. This — 

Treville's cock is *aching* for it, for this — 

For more *kisses*, more bites, a growl — 

They can't do this. He shakes his head. 

Laurent raises one of his bloody *eyebrows* — 

"*Laurent*." 

"I know what you want." 

"I'm not *yours*." 

Laurent takes a step forward — 

Treville is constitutionally incapable of *retreating* in a situation like — 

"I know. What you want." 

"I'm not. Bloody. *Yours*." 

"But you should've been —" 

"Let me — let me get your brother back —" 

"Let me have *you*, Treville. *Brother*. We never should have been apart —" 

Treville inhales sharply — 

Breathes in Laurent's leather, musk, perfume, *arousal* — 

He growls and *reaches* for Laurent — 

He can't — 

He *can't*, not when Laurent immediately grabs his wrist in his strong, perfect hand — 

Yanks him *close* — 

*Nuzzles* at his mouth — "You're not the brother I grew up with. You're not the brother I *raised* as my *own*. But a man who might've *been* me did those things. And then didn't do *enough* of the rest. That is an error that requires rectification," Laurent says, and bites Treville's lip hard enough to draw *blood* — 

Sucks — 

Growls and sucks harder, *harder* — 

The pain makes Treville *throb* — 

Make him *ache* to just — 

Just — 

And the images run rampant through his mind. Him on his knees, his back, his face. 

Him *bent* — 

And Laurent pulls back — "Yes, I think that's best," he says, licking his lips and narrowing his already heavy-lidded eyes. "Do you see how easy it is to speak to me, brother?" 

Fuck — he'd built a *connection* — 

Laurent grins, wild and more than a little sly. "You're not thinking clearly, brother...? I'm flattered. Over the desk." 

"Laurent — you'll have to — when your brother is back —" 

"Rebuild *our* connection? Yes, I assumed so," he says, and cups Treville's face. "Are you worried for me, brother?" 

"*Yes* —" 

"Are you worried for the other Treville?" 

"He can't — he can't be *without* you —" 

"The way you've been?" 

Treville shudders — 

Tries not to — he moans, and turns to lick Laurent's palm, his hilt callus — 

He sucks it, nibbles, groans when Laurent *lets* him — 

"Should I let you make love to me, brother?" 

Treville whines — 

"Is *that* what you need most of all?" 

Treville dreams of burying his face in Laurent's crotch and *inhaling* — 

Just — 

"Just for a moment, yes," Laurent says. "On your knees." 

"Laurent —" 

"Shh. Don't make me wait." 

"Fuck — I just — I just —" 

"You don't want to take what isn't yours. You've never been that sort of man," Laurent says, and strokes Treville's mouth. "You've never been so ignoble as that." 

"*Please*." 

"I will confess every moment of this to *my* Treville, brother. And he will understand. Wouldn't you?" 

"I — yes. Yes. But I'd be jealous." 

"But you'd let me ease it. Wouldn't you," Laurent says, and smiles. 

"I'd need you to. I'd — I'd always —" 

"On. Your. Knees." And Laurent lifts his chin — 

And Treville — drops. 

Just drops — 

Moans and — 

"Good boy." 

"Please —" 

"Shh," Laurent says, and begins opening his trousers at speed — 

His scents rise *immediately* — 

Treville is panting, moaning as quietly as he can, *salivating* — 

Laurent pushes his trousers down just enough and works on his *breeches* — 

Treville *yips* — 

Blushes — 

He hasn't made that sound in *years* — 

But Laurent only smiles, pleased and satisfied. "My hungry hound," he says, and pushes his breeches out of the way, too — 

His huge, hard cock pops *free* — 

Treville has never *seen* it so hard up close, so — 

So *hard* — 

It's so bloody *big* — 

"Come, brother. Take what you want... for a little while." 

Treville moans and lunges for it, cups the base with his hand — mainly to get the scents on it — and sucks, licks, nuzzles, pulls back and *nuzzles* — 

Pushes that thick cock up against Laurent's belly and sucks his bollocks, his sweaty-tangy bollocks, so heavy, so — 

Let them fill his mouth, let him *have* — 

But. 

He only has a little time. He only has a little *time*. 

He pulls back again and *swallows* Laurent's cock — 

The muscles *remember*, even after all this time — 

Laurent *grunts* — 

Shoves both big hands into Treville's hair — 

Grunts *again* — "What do the muscles remember, brother? Mm? Who have you been giving yourself to?" 

I — I — 

"Don't hesitate. Don't ever — hesitate —" 

Only — whores. And. I have a friend, another mage — 

Laurent growls. "You share power with him? Your... your ability to walk the *numinous* paths?" 

Yes — 

"I'm *jealous*." 

Laurent — 

"Shh. Shh, I — take *my* cock. You don't know what I like. It's time you learn," Laurent says, and cups Treville's head, and pulls back while *pushing* Treville back — 

Treville sucks *hard* — 

While he *can* — 

"Yes — oh — so eager, so *eager* — I'm going to fuck you now," he says, but doesn't push back *in* — 

*Please* — 

"Are you hard for me?" 

Yes!

"Do you ache?" 

Treville's cock *spasms* — 

He *nods* — 

"No, speak." 

I *ache*, I want you, I've wanted this since I was *fourteen* — 

"This in particular?" 

Please fuck me! 

Laurent growls — "Answer. My. Questions." 

*Fuck* — please — *please* — I have your scent — 

Laurent pants and moans —

Licks his lips — 

"Be quick and you'll have more. We both will. I *need* you." 

Treville *groans* — 

Tries not to lick out for the head of Laurent's cock — 

It's *dripping* — 

"That's right, brother. Be good. Be good." 

*Please* — 

"What did you *want*." 

To be your *boy*!

Laurent shivers — "To do with what I would?" 

*Yes*!

"To..." Laurent growls more. "I can't wait much longer. I can't —" 

Please don't wait — 

"Tell me another desire. Tell me another *specific* desire. *Don't* make me wait." 

Treville groans and just — lose yourself, Laurent. *Lose* yourself with me and don't — 

And Laurent thrusts in *hard* — 

Treville *gulps* — 

Swallows — 

*Sucks* — 

Laurent pets him, pants, shudders and *pants* — "Lose myself. That's what you want." 

*Please*!

"Should that seem like so much more of a betrayal...?" 

Treville's belly drops — 

There's ice in his spine — 

He can't — 

He tries to pull back — 

"*No*," Laurent says. "I can give no less to my — oh, but you're my brother, too, aren't you?" 

Please, please, *please* — 

Laurent pulls out and *thrusts* — 

Treville gulps again — 

"You're my —" 

Treville swallows *hard* — 

"*Nnh* —" 

Laurent pulls out and thrusts *hard* — 

Treville takes it, takes it and *heats*, heats everywhere, *needs* — 

"You're *my* —" 

And the next thrust is just as hard, but faster, rougher — 

So much — 

Oh, Laurent — 

"You're just as much — across every sphere —" 

*Laurent* — 

"The way you look at me —" 

I can't — not any other *way* — 

And Laurent *snarls* and *fucks* him, fucks him *viciously* hard, *punishingly* hard — 

Treville's heart pounds, his belly drops *again* — 

He groans in his *chest* — 

His cock is leaking fast and steadily and he needs, he *needs* — 

"What do you *need*." 

More! 

"Good. *Boy*," Laurent says and *pounds* him, *reams* him — 

Oh, fuck — 

Oh, *fuck* — 

Treville's lashes flutter — 

He can't *see* straight — 

Laurent is so *rough* — 

Laurent growls a laugh — "I'd say — I'd say you *taught* me to be, brother, but the truth is that. That you *encouraged* my every brutal *urge* —" 

*Yes*! 

Laurent growls *more* — 

*Yanks* Treville's hair — 

"I want your *arse*." 

Treville shudders and clenches, flexes *open* — 

"Tell me. Tell me if you need much — much *preparation*." 

Treville groans, helplessly thinking of Jason, of Jason *sodding* Blood, and the way *he* can put Treville on his knees, on his hands and knees — 

With his long, spidery fingers — 

His rich laughter — 

His *shadows* — 

"Oh — long red hair — now I'm truly jealous. Did you — no. No," Laurent says, and fucks him faster — 

Treville *groans* — 

Takes it and *groans* — 

"Oh, that's — my *brother* —" 

Yours! 

"Tell me about your *mage*." 

And Treville tries to concentrate, tries to share — 

He'd saved Jason's life — 

They'd — 

They'd shared *favours* — 

Conversation — 

"About *what*," Laurent says, and Treville wants to tell him, tell him *everything* about shadows and fear and *need*, so much need, so much need and *loneliness* — 

They had too many *dead* between them — 

Laurent *snarls* again — 

And he's fucking Treville so — 

Fucking — 

He's fucking Treville like he could be interrupted at any time, like he wants to make sure he firms every *point*. 

He's fucking Treville like he wants to crawl down his throat — 

Like he wants to *batter* down a path that will last like a Roman *road* — 

Treville *groans* — 

Swallows and swallows, and he's *still* drooling, still *losing* himself — 

Laurent catches him by the jaw and the hair and yanks his head back — all the way back — 

Fucks *down* into his throat — 

Oh, fuck — 

Treville is going to — 

"Yes — open your trousers — good... *good*." Laurent growls and *reams* him more. "I know you love this. I know you — oh, you don't —" He *growls* — "Your *mage*. Did you choose him for the look of him? Kitos's crooked nose? Reynard's hair? And his calluses — he's a soldier, as well?" 

He — he — 

("We will be kin if you do this..." 

"I *am* familiar with the *mechanisms* of blood magic, Jason.") 

And Jason had coughed a *weak* laugh from where he'd been sprawled on the ground, bled far more than half-dry, ancient-looking mail glittering all round him. His other powers — everything *Treville* could sense — had been guttering and weak, as well, and...

("Earth-mages always think they are...") 

Treville will never forget how Jason had introduced himself — charming and graceful despite his pain, despite Treville's *belligerence* as he'd blundered into the man's dying ground demanding to know who was setting off every alarm he'd had — 

He'd still — 

"He's more than your *friend* —" 

Ally — brother — 

Laurent snarls like a *beast* — "You'll never know how badly I *want* you!" And there's something almost like rage to the way he's fucking Treville, taking him, *having* him — 

There is — 

There is a loneliness in *him* — 

A sense that he's wanted more than he's been *given* — 

But how? 

Any Treville would surely — 

Treville pauses opening his trousers — 

"*Don't* —" 

He shares his need for his eldest brother, the long nights when he would've done anything for a touch, a word, a *sign* that a touch from him would be welcome — 

A desperate *plea* that could be assuaged with — 

With just this *grip* — 

Laurent groans and grips him *tighter* — 

Some few hairs let go — 

Treville groans in his *chest*, and he's leaking precisely like the hound he is, sticky and *copious* in his breeches, and he can't — 

"Open yourself, show me, *show* me —" 

He does, he *does*, and his sheath is pulled all the way back, and his cock is twitching and *jerking* — 

"Squeeze your *knot*." 

He *does*, even though it always makes him *bark* the first — 

But Laurent *shoves* in hard, *hard*, choking it off, choking him so *perfectly* — 

Treville's cock jerks even more — 

He squeezes *harder*, hopes for *more* — 

"You — can always *take* —" And Laurent growls and *sobs*, hauling him *in* — 

Crushing Treville's face to his groin — 

And now the reaming is ragged, constant, rough and *harsh* — 

So *perfect* — 

Treville tosses himself off just as harshly — 

Just as *brutally* — 

Treville fantasizes about Laurent's hilt callus right there, right where his own is, and he — 

He feels himself flushing — 

Sweating *desperately* — 

Laurent is barely allowing even the most meagre *sips* of air —

Laurent is grunting and panting, panting and growling — 

Bruising Treville's *scalp* — 

*Shaking* and *obviously* forcing himself to hold on, to keep himself from losing *control* — 

Treville — can't take that. He forces himself to focus, to — *Give* it to me, Laurent!

Laurent cries *out* — 

Don't — don't hold *on* — 

Laurent swivels his hips and *slams* in, knocking Treville *back* — 

Cries out again — 

Yanks him *in* again — "Don't — *don't* —" 

Give me — give me your *fire*. 

"*Treville* —" 

*Please*!

And Laurent groans like something *dying*, pulls out, and *knocks* Treville to the *floor* — 

"*Fuck* —" 

"I *need* you," Laurent says. "Get on your *back*!" 

And for a moment, Treville can only stare up at his ever-formal, ever-polite, ever-correct brother as he *looms* over Treville with his trousers and breeches down, with his cock slick and huge and red and rampant, with his hair mussed and his eyes wild and — 

And Treville is on his back because he needs to be, he needs to be this desired, this *needed*, this — 

This *shoved* to the floor and thrust against, *fucked* against — 

"*Laurent* —" 

Laurent *sobs* — 

"Come *down* —"

But Laurent *pins* him by the shoulders, grips him, holds him down and *ruts*, *slams* — 

*Groans* — 

*His* cock is jerking — 

Spasming and *jerking* — 

"You're so close —" 

"I *need* you!" 

"I've always been *yours*!" 

Laurent picks him up by the shoulders — 

Slams him back *down* — 

"*Fuck*, Laurent —" 

"I — I —" 

"Please *kiss* me again!" 

"Oh — *God* —" And Laurent does it, grinding and grinding and *thrusting* against Treville as he *takes* Treville's mouth, fucking it *hard*, stroking down to Treville's hands and twining their fingers together — 

Treville squeezes — 

Laurent *groans* and squeezes back — 

Digs their knuckles in against the *wood* — and *rides* Treville. 

Just — 

One *slam* after another as he *fucks* Treville's mouth, licks the taste of himself *out* of it — 

Treville sucks his tongue, licks, goes down on it — 

Until Laurent starts *rutting* and all Treville can do is lap like a hound and croon *desperately* — 

"Oh — *oh* —" And Laurent throws his head back — 

Grits his *teeth* — 

Treville *whines* — 

Laurent growls and *dives* in to bite Treville's *throat* — 

"HNH —" And Treville spasms and *spurts*, just —

Just *spurts*, and Laurent snarls and bites him harder, breaks the skin again, takes him, *ruts* — 

*Sucks* — 

Treville *howls* — 

And Laurent breaks the bite — "*Fuck* —" 

*He* spurts, and for a moment they're jerking together, wetting each other down, slicking each other *up*, making a mess like two randy *recruits*, and it's everything he'd ever — 

No. It's *not* everything he'd ever dreamed, but it's so much *more* than anything — 

He can't stop jerking and bucking and — 

Fuck, he hadn't even gotten his *legs* around Laurent, but it's so much more, so much *more* — 

Laurent is *licking* him and *grinding* — 

They're both *groaning* — 

Panting and — 

Treville's heart is *thundering* in his chest, and, for once, all he can *really* smell are the scents of love, sex, *Laurent*, *Laurent* and *him* — 

Oh — 

He's *bruised*. 

He's — 

He's bloody *battered* from Laurent losing his mind for him, and — 

Treville smiles. 

Treville grins. 

Treville *laughs*, happy and helpless — 

"Brother..."

"I — I apologize —" 

"*Don't*," Laurent says, and he still sounds mad with it, as if at any given moment he might decide to brutalize Treville a little more in the name of lovemaking — 

Treville is entirely in *favour* of that — 

He laughs more — 

And Laurent stares down at him with wonder, with need, with —

Fuck, Treville has to *know*. He reaches — and finds images of himself smiling lazily after lovemaking — not himself. He finds images of that other Treville, *whoever* he is, and his youth is startling, *frightening*. 

Realistically, Treville knows that, dressed and in even good light, most people would have difficulty telling them apart. 

*Laurent* hadn't known anything was wrong until Treville had started *speaking*, and he's the younger Treville's *lover*. 

But. 

The eyes. 

The smile. 

There is...

Put simply, the younger Treville hasn't lost enough. Hasn't — 

Laurent had spoken of Kitos and Reynard as if *they* were still alive, *too* — 

Laurent grunts and squeezes Treville's hands *hard* before kneeling up. They're going to have to wipe their leathers down — "You — I disregarded you when you said —" 

"It's all right —" 

"It's *not*. I — I'm *older* than you by nearly ten years. It's at least fairly reasonable that you would've lost me —" 

"There's nothing *reasonable* about the loss of a love," Treville says — too harshly. 

Laurent inhales sharply. "Brother," he says, and searches him with wide eyes — not wild ones. 

*He* looks young. 

He looks — 

He hasn't lost Kitos and Reynard, either. He doesn't know. 

"I — listen. Listen. You *must* tell your Treville to *bind* Kitos and Reynard." 

"What? Like — he bound me?" 

"*Yes*. I've figured *out* that the idea makes you a bit mad with jealousy —" 

"I'm not — those feelings aren't worthy —" 

"Shh, wait," Treville says, twisting one hand free and gesturing for peace. 

"Treville —" 

"*Wait*." 

"Are you *ordering* me?" 

Treville blinks — 

Remembers who and *when* they are — but.

And smiles ruefully. "I am. For the moment," he says, scooting back and sitting up. 

Laurent stares at him *wonderingly*. 

And Treville... takes a breath. "You are — were — bound to the other Treville. Yes?" 

"Of course." 

"And you hadn't so much as caught a summer's *mild* ague since, right?" 

"No, I haven't — he told me that I'd have access to some of his own vitality... oh. You want him to give that to Kitos and Reynard, as well?"

"Absolutely —" 

"But won't that put *him* at risk?"

"It *would*... if he were as weak as he thinks he is. He doesn't do half as much with his powers and abilities as he can — and should. And as he'll *have* to as time passes. There's a whole world just slightly to the left of this one, Laurent — and there are wars to fight in it. Wars he *must* fight. He'll strengthen himself more for them —" 

"And gain... allies." 

"Yes." 

Laurent ducks his head and smiles wryly. 

"Laurent —" 

"You must know..." 

"What is it?" 

Laurent takes Treville's hand back and studies the scarring, very clearly noting the ones which must be different from his own Treville's. "I'm only jealous of Kitos and Reynard because they can and do *ride* with my Treville while I'm trapped in this stuffy little *box*. At least when I was a lieutenant, I could and did go out in the field more than I went to *Court*." 

"Oh — Laurent." 

"How I loved adventuring with you! *Warring* with you —" 

"You were *born* for it." 

Laurent growls. "Such hunger in your eyes whenever I killed in front of you. I never *quite* understood that — it is our *business* —" 

"I have something of a fixation for *competence*, Laurent —" 

Laurent coughs a laugh — 

Blushes like a *boy* — 

And Treville smiles helplessly, stroking his face with his other hand. "I have to... let me tell you how else to protect yourself. Your loved ones." 

"Marie-Angelique? Does something —" 

"You die together, on my sphere." 

"Oh. How?" 

"A carriage accident, of all the stupid, random —" Treville shudders. "Your sons — you'll have two — acquit themselves well —"

"Bind. Could you. Could you bind *her*." 

Treville blinks — and then grins. "I don't know why I'm surprised that you'd want me to. Of course." 

Laurent takes a shuddering breath. "She is so... I thought I would *never* truly desire a woman —" 

Treville nods. "Most of us thought you'd marry a book, someday. A really *interesting* one, mind, but —" 

Laurent laughs more. "Brother." 

Treville grins. "But — another thing. You can't raise your sons traditionally. You *can't*." 

"What? What do you —" 

"If all goes the way it seems like it will, the eldest will *badly* *need* to follow in your footsteps —" 

"But —" 

"No matter *how* badly you want him to be a proper little courtier." 

Laurent winces. "Truly, I wouldn't wish that on *anyone* —" 

"*Remember* that." 

"But —" 

"No." 

"It's more correct —" 

"Respecting your children's wishes and needs and *selves* is more correct than *that*." 

Laurent rears back. "Does something... would he be *injured*..." 

"I... don't know for *certain* that the path you put him on is the *direct* cause of the tragedies in his — and the younger one's — lives. They grow up to keep *secrets* from me. But, from what I've been able to *determine*, allowing them to seek their own destinies is, at the very least, the first *step* to avoiding —" 

"You're being *vague* again, brother!" 

Treville winces. "I'm sorry. I — Olivier is the eldest. Thomas is the younger. Thomas dies in mysterious circumstances when he's only twenty —" 

"*No*!" 

"Olivier always stuck to the story that it was a sudden ague, but his grief was... terrible. He turned to drink —" 

"I — no. No —" 

"He turned *against* your plans to make him a courtier *anyway* and joined *my* Musketeers, but, in truth, he began an elaborate plan for suicide. If it wasn't for my... my Porthos..." Treville shakes his head. 

"Who is *Porthos*?" 

"Amina's son — and another wrong I have to fix. I'm sorry. It all goes wrong in so many bloody *ways*, Laurent. Starting — soon." 

"Could you — I know you're telling me that you need to *leave* me soon, but — what could possibly happen with my *sons* —" 

"You and Marie-Angelique die, leaving them — and I leave them, too. I told myself that I was being well-*behaved* —" 

"How could *that* be —" 

"I told myself that keeping my distance from Olivier would keep me from attempting to *seduce* him into throwing off your plans for him and joining the regiment. He is my *best* man, and even before he joined, his potential was *phenomenal* —" 

"And I still didn't...?" 

"You didn't. But — I stayed away. And — something *happened* to them. To *both* of them." 

Laurent searches him with pain and *worry*. "Do you think they... hurt each other?" 

"Oh — God, *no*. But that's something else, Laurent — they fight like wet cats in a sack when they're younger, in part because they each want what the other one has, in terms of your plans for them." 

"I — tried to raise *Thomas* to the life of the warrior? And he was unfit for it?" 

"Utterly so. They're both *your* boys, but Thomas's intellectualism is far more suited to Court." 

Laurent nods thoughtfully. "But I was... hidebound. Set in my ways. And I had no one to look to as a better example in terms of raising children — I see. I see. I am forewarned and forearmed, brother. Now tell me of Amina. What happens to your sister? She'll be giving birth in another month..." 

"So soon..." Treville growls and stands — 

Wipes himself down with his handkerchief — 

Does up his breeches and trousers and *paces* — 

"Not *long* after Amina gives birth... I... that *bastard* *Belgard* —" 

"Go." 

"Laurent —" 

"Were you aware that you were growling?"

Treville *stops* — 

*Thinks* — 

"Wait," he says — 

"*Brother*." 

"We have to think about logistics, and how much time and room I have to do what I need to do, and, for that, I need help — and you, especially, need to see this," he says, and — concentrates very, very specifically — 

On the blood in his veins — 

On the connections he's made —- 

On kin. 

On kin that, perhaps, should never have *been* kin, but — 

But there's a... smudge, on the air. 

And the scent of smoke and metal and perfume and — 

And it's not familiar perfume, which is his first *warning* — 

But — 

But there's a silk patch over the right eye of the Jason Blood who steps through the smudge, mailed and armed to the teeth and usual, but — not his Jason in the slightest. 

Not — 

Treville raises an eyebrow.

The wrong Jason Blood smiles wryly and bows. "You'll have to forgive me, Captain Treville. Your own Jason is indisposed at the moment, and asked me to answer your summons, since he truly would *loathe* to keep you waiting," the man says — and offers his — mailed — *left* hand. 

Treville lifts his nose — but. 

He smells like Jason, except for the perfume. 

The hellfire, the smoke, the violence. 

The musk, the steel, the wool. 

The salt and blood and patience and good *will*. 

And, of course, the growing amusement — for all that the extensive scarring on the right side of his face — it looks like it goes right down under the mail, down his throat and perhaps to the shoulder — makes the man's usually obnoxious smile a bit too grim for what Treville can smell. 

Treville grunts and takes his hand. "He's all right?" 

"*Oh*, yes. Etrigan is simply demanding his time for the next little while, as he is wont to do." A subtle eyebrow lift — the question is an obvious one:

How much, exactly, are they sharing? 

The answer is obvious, too. 

Treville looks back and forth between Jason and Laurent, who is studying Jason with polite interest. "Jason, this is Laurent d'Achille de la Fère, Captain of the King's Musketeers and my dear brother. Laurent, this is... *one* of the spheres' Jason Bloods, a blood- and fire-mage, a former knight of the Round Table, my ally and kin *by* shared blood, and a man of great honour."

"Oh, I'm all aflutter —" 

"He's also something of a ponce —" 

"I'm less aflutter —" 

"And he's possessed by a demon." 

"Please try not to hold *that* against me, Captain," he says, and offers his hand to Laurent, who has started to blink. "It *wasn't* by choice." 

Laurent opens his mouth — 

Seems to pause to think — 

Closes his mouth, takes Jason's hand, shakes it firmly, and inclines his head. "Monsieur Blood. Do you have a title I should be using?" 

"I was once landed gentry, and I will always, always be a knight," Jason says, and smiles sharply. "At present, however, my lands are overgrown forest and I have a distinct lack of a liege. So," he says, and spreads his hands. The right doesn't move quite the same *way* as the left, though it does move smoothly, which answers Treville's questions about how well he can use that bastard sword on his back. "Call me that which makes you most comfortable, Captain." 

"Sir Jason, then," Laurent says — 

"As you would. How may I be of assistance until Captain Treville's own Jason can make his eager appearance?" 

Laurent raises an *eyebrow* — 

Treville smiles wryly — 

And Jason winks at him with his one red-brown eye. "He talks about you all the time, you know. Frenchmen usually *loathe* us." 

"Why is that?" 

Jason turns back to Laurent with his eyebrows up. "You don't think the accent's enough? The Jasons I've conversed with who exist further along various time-streams are *vehement* about the fact that, on spheres where there *are* Britons and Frenchmen, they *will* kill each other nearly indiscriminately for *centuries*." 

"That's... horrifying." 

"Isn't it? It does make me feel better about all the time I spend killing demons of various stripes. At least rather more separates us than a language and a taste for pastry."

Laurent opens his mouth again — 

Frowns — 

Frowns *deeply*, in that way he has when he feels he's about to say something *incorrect* and he *hates* it — 

Treville has missed it *badly* — 

(Brother.) 

Treville coughs into his fist. "Say it, Laurent. We are all, if not friends, then allies." 

"Hm. It's only that I find myself deeply confused by your lack of *devotion* to a god — *any* god — given your good friend's... activities." 

"Oh, no, Captain, *no*," Jason says, and sucks his teeth. "Gods are terrible beings to devote oneself to." 

"I." 

"They might pay *attention* to those devotions and *expect* something of you someday." 

"But —" 

"Or worse — decide to grant you a *boon*." 

Laurent is frowning again, but — 

"Ah — the way Ife explained it to me, brother...?" 

"Yes?" And Laurent turns to *him*. 

"Picture yourself as a toddler, with about the same ability to protect yourself as a toddler, and about the same knowledge as a toddler. Picture a god — a very *good* god — as, say, Reynard. With a head full of brandy. Cheerful, protective, kind to children, loving, helpful — but not the best choice for caring for a toddler." 

"Oh, dear." 

"The toddler says, 'help, a bad man in that tavern was mean to me!' What does Reynard do?" 

"Everything short of razing the tavern to the ground," Laurent says, and looks queasy. 

"And what if there were people in that tavern other gods liked? Worse gods?" 

"The toddler — oh, *dear*. But this is all very *Greek*." 

"I chose this name for *many* reasons," Jason says, and smiles again. "The wiser, more sober, more judicious sorts of gods tend to have nothing to do with species like ours. For the obvious reasons." 

Laurent blinks. "I don't believe I've ever heard quite this *much* heresy in such a brief period of time before." 

Jason grins, crooked and obviously delighted. "My pleasure." 

Laurent laughs — 

Treville *snorts* — 

And there's another smudge on the air — and an even *thicker* smell of smoke and hellfire... but the *correct* perfume. 

*His* Jason steps out wreathed in shadows — one of them is in the process of tying his long hair back — with an air of being harried. "Terribly sorry, Treville. You must know I wouldn't have made you wait —" 

"It's all right, Jason —" 

"You *never* call me for *help* —" 

"I bloody do —" 

"You truly don't," his Jason says, and scans the room with his eyebrows up, nodding with warmth to the other Jason and polite greeting to Laurent. "What have I missed?" 

"Not much but the basics, Jason," the other Jason says. "That's Laurent d'Achille de la Fère —" 

"*Current* Captain of the King's Musketeers, yes, I recognize him by the descriptions," his Jason says, choosing not to mention what they'd shared in other ways. 

(We can do that another time, amant.)

That they can. 

"We're in entirely the wrong time for *Treville*, and that explains the summons well enough," his Jason says, flaring his nostrils *undoubtedly* for the scents of musk and spend — 

*Looking* at Treville — 

I *don't* think you can blame me, Jason. 

(Mm. Well, that remains to be *seen* —) 

It does *not* — 

"And I believe that *that* is my cue," the other Jason says, bowing and stepping back. "It was a pleasure to meet you both, Captains." 

"And you, too, Sir Jason," Laurent says, a little stiffly — he's aware of the undercurrents. 

Treville inclines his head to the man. "Thank you for coming." 

"Of course. Until we meet again," the other Jason says, and steps back into his smudge — and it gradually fades from existence. 

When it's gone, Jason turns to Laurent and steps close. "Captain de la Fère. Treville has told me much of you over the years, and of his great love and respect for you. I am honoured to make your acquaintance," he says, and offers his *right* hand. 

"Are you?" 

Jason grins. "Caught my jealousy, did you?" 

Laurent raises an eyebrow. "It matched my own." 

Jason hums and folds his hands behind his back. "Please forgive my rudeness for attempting to communicate with Treville behind your back. I have been... intimate with him —" 

"That much I presumed —" 

"Please wait?" 

Laurent inclines his head slightly. 

"Thank you *very* much," Jason says. "The intimacy Treville shared with me when he bled himself so very much to save my *hide* is unlike any other intimacy there is. When *you* take his blood, you become bound with him, because of the blood-magery that was used in the... alteration of him. When *I* took his blood, I became bound with him, and he took a measure of my *immortality*, because that was the *only* way the scales could be *balanced*." 

"His — your." 

Jason laughs darkly. "Understand, Captain. I was about to die. My immortality is functional, not complete. When Treville chose to save me — chose to weaken himself so very *badly* to save a *stranger* — the magic he performed was powerful. And could only be answered in kind. I'm not sure if I'm making as much sense as I could be, but, in the end, what it boils down to is that your Treville has changed my fate from one of guaranteed ashes and death and loneliness to something... rather different. As a result, I am *fond*. 

"And I am, from time to time, a possessive man." 

Laurent lifts his chin. "So am I." 

"On Treville's sphere, you never possessed *him*, at all." 

"That's an obscenity." 

And Jason's smile is — wild. He turns back to Treville. "You're absolutely correct, amant. I *can't* blame you for letting him fuck you senseless." 

Treville crosses his arms over his chest. "Oh, can't you? Is the cock-measuring done with? Can I take off these bloody skirts and get down to business?" 

Laurent blushes — 

And Jason shows his teeth. "I'll behave. I *promise*. First things first: Were you planning to stay?" 

"I — no — I'm in the place of another Treville —" 

"His lover, I presume? Not that I judge." 

*Treville* blushes. "*Yes*, Jason." 

"Mm, well, there's a problem." 

"What —" 

"*What* problem," Treville says, and steps in close — 

"You've already been mucking about with the melodies of the spheres, the fabric of everything, et cetera — I don't even have to make that a question. I can smell it as well as I can smell your *spend*, amant." 

"But — I haven't *done* anything but make love —" 

"No? Not even telling secrets? Little tales designed to ease your brother's — and his loved ones' — futures?" 

"Oh... bloody hell. Bloody buggering — I thought I'd have more *time*!" 

"You do. A little. With my help, and a *large* amount of power borrowed from your Mother —" Jason turns to Laurent and says, "That would be the Earth, i.e., the *one* goddess I try not to hack *off*." And then he turns back to Treville. "We can get you back to your own sphere, and, I *believe*, your own time." 

"You believe?" 

"It won't be exact, temporally. You've mucked it all up too much already." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"It *will* be exact *proximately* — so long as you do nothing *else*." 

And... there's ice in his spine again. 

There's ice in his *bollocks*, because — 

"Brother? What — what haven't you told me? What's left to be — oh. Amina..."

Treville whines and *slams* up his mental walls at the same time, hiding everything he knows, everything he suspects — 

Hiding everything up to and including his own *weeping* on the day Porthos had walked into his office after twenty *fucking* years without him — 

With nothing but the memories of his *scents* — 

He's — 

He's *shaking* — 

"Sir Jason, are you saying that — that he will not be able to return to his *home* if he saves his sister from whatever terrible fate..." 

Jason winces as he stares at Treville for long moments — 

Treville looks *away* — 

"Yes," Jason says. "And... your own Treville —" 

"He won't be able to return *here*? Where is he *now*? Can you — have you any ability to discover that?" 

"Do you have something of his —" 

Laurent immediately pulls one of Treville's own handkerchiefs out of a breast pocket — 

"Ah, good, it's *sweaty*," Jason says, and *licks* it — 

"*Excuse* me —" 

Jason holds up a hand — "No, I — this is going to take a bit of — give me a few moments," he says, and walks into his smudge. 

The smudge itself stays. 

Treville — 

He can't — 

He can't think. 

He can barely *breathe*. 

He can't *look* at anything in this bloody — "I'm going outside —" 

"Don't —" 

"I'll pull on my glamour of years; no one will recognize —" 

"Brother, don't *leave*," Laurent says, and cups Treville's shoulder with his hard, warm hand — 

Treville shudders and shudders and *fights* back the snarl — "Let go." 

"Don't —" 

"Let *go*." 

Laurent snatches his hand back — and that feels awful. Wrong. *Wrong*. 

He can smell Laurent's *hurt* — 

He can — 

"We'll get your brother back," Treville says, and he doesn't look, and he doesn't look, and he — 

And he doesn't think of his Amina-love, his sister, his beautiful — 

Dead and all but *shriveled* on the *floor* of a *tenement* — 

Laurent *gasps* — 

*Shit* — he blanks his mind. "Don't —" 

"But — how? How did you lose her? You never would've let her come to such *straits* —" 

"*Laurent* —" 

"And the child — to grow up in such —" 

"*Don't*, Laurent —" 

"But you said — you implied that her son was a help to my own. You saved him? You were able to —" 

"*Shut it*!" Treville shouts, and shores up his trembling walls as best as he can — 

As *hard* as he — 

He *can't* — 

"I don't think I will," Laurent says, and *spins* Treville to face him. 

Treville *grunts* — 

"I think, wherever my brother has gone, he will do everything in his power to fight for peace, and justice, and the *right*." 

"Laurent, what are you... what are you *saying*?" 

"I think — I *know* — that wherever he has gone, your Jason — or another — will reach out to him to offer assistance, even if *you* can't." 

Treville feels himself *blanch* and he — he shakes his head. "Don't do this, Laurent. Don't —" 

"Then tell me honestly that Amina's child — your *sister's* child — will be safe, and warm, and loved, and happy if you simply leave here and tell me nothing, at all."

Treville pants — 

And pants — 

And — whines. 

Jason walks back through the smudge just then — and the handkerchief in his hand ignites, and burns to ash in moments. 

Laurent *grunts* — 

"Well," Jason says. "I don't *think* I have to tell either of you what you just did, now do I." 

Treville covers his *face*.

Laurent cups his shoulder again, warm and *hard*. "It was the right thing, Sir Jason." 

"Be that as it *may*, I truly do hope you don't mind overmuch that *I* am going to have to be the bearer of bad news to the other Treville?" 

"I presumed as much," Laurent says, formal and brave and — 

Treville drops his hand. "*Damn* you, Laurent, don't — don't pretend this means *nothing*!" 

"I never could, brother," Laurent says, and his hand doesn't shake, his voice doesn't shake — but. His eyes are too wide.

His eyes are — 

Treville groans and pulls him close, hugs him *close* — 

A *vast* shudder runs through him once — 

Again — 

He *stills* — 

"*Laurent*. Let *go*." 

"No — no, I can't — I can't —" 

"Laurent, there is — no, let me get you *out* of here —" 

"What have I done?" he asks, in the smallest possible *voice* — 

Treville *freezes* — and then. And then realizes that he can't. 

That *he* can't, not now, not ever — possibly not ever again. 

He pulls back, just far enough that he can cup Laurent's beautiful face — 

That he can tilt it down enough that they're gazing into each other's eyes — 

"Porthos isn't only Amina's child, Laurent. He's *my* child. The magic, the rituals — he's no more Belgard's son than he's *yours*, now. He's *mine*. You. You saved my son. That's what you did." 

Laurent blinks rapidly — 

Tears fall — 

And then he smiles, and nods. "I saved your son. My nephew. My... but may I be his godfather? I — I know it's grasping —" 

"You — oh, fuck — I have to — Amina has to let me adopt — and then I have to *ask* her —" 

"Of course —" 

"There's no one I'd rather *have* —" 

"Truly? I — but Reynard, and Kitos —" 

"His Uncles. They — they'll teach him everything you *don't* —" 

"Oh... he'll be the most *deadly* of toddlers..." And Laurent lifts one shaking hand to his own face — and then to Treville's mouth. "He gave me everything." 

"Yes." 

"He gave me — but what... how can I possibly *tell* Kitos and Reynard?" 

"We'll tell them together —" 

"They'll be — they'll be well within their rights to — to do *anything* with me —" 

"Shh, shh —" 

"Brother... oh, brother, there — there was no *choice*!" 

He can't freeze. He can't — "There wasn't." 

"I couldn't — what would've *happened*?" 

"Amina died when Porthos was five, in the Court of Miracles —" 

"Oh — oh, God —" 

"He fought and scrabbled to survive for the next fifteen years —" 

"But how —" 

"Watching his few companions *also* struggle and fight — and most often *die* around him from sickness and poverty and *violence* —" 

"*No*." 

"He was forced to whore himself, to thieve, to — to do everything it took. He decided to become a Musketeer independently. To *drag* himself out of the *gutter*. He came to me so *beaten*... but still so strong, so powerful, so *brave*. So *determined*. So... scarred. So hurt. So — for so many *years*, Laurent —" 

"And — you'd told me. Us. You'd told us that you were *connected* to *both* Amina and the babe inside her — to *Porthos* — now. You — how did you *survive* without him? How were you separated from him for so long in the first place?" 

"Necromancy. Death-magic used to cloak their — their *trails* from even blood-mages, not to mention earth-mages. I... I ached, Laurent. I *burned*. And. I froze." 

And Laurent... takes a deep, *smooth* breath. 

Stands straight. 

And tugs himself away from Treville. "It was the right decision," he says. "It was the *only* decision, and —" He shakes his head once. "Brother, I appreciate your care for my *heart*, but the fact that you even *considered* letting this happen *again*..." 

"*Laurent* —" 

"No," he says, gentle and firm, and turns to Jason. "Sir Jason. *Have* you found my love?" 

Jason looks up from where he'd been staring with grim discretion at the floor. "I have, Captain. He is safe, at the moment, and already in contact with another one of *you*." 

"*Oh* —" 

"Yes. As near as I was able to discern at speed, the Treville *from* that sphere died quite young —" 

"*No* —" 

"— and the spheres themselves have always seemed to appreciate harmony," Jason says, and spreads his hands. "Balance, if you would." 

Laurent looks horrified, but...

But. 

Treville rests a hand on his chest, over his pounding heart. "Laurent." 

"I." Laurent blinks rapidly and shakes his head once. "Of course... of course the Laurent from that sphere must recognize what a gift he has received... and that Kitos and Reynard, as well..." 

"I —" 

"Of course they must not... waste any *time*..." 

Jason hums. "They certainly did not seem to be doing so, no." 

Laurent *grunts* — and colours. 

Treville laughs ruefully. "I can't imagine any Treville being able to stand against any Laurent's honest *need* for him. *Ever*." 

"I can't imagine any *Laurent* being able to *wait*, not with — not with that. Not after such *loss*," Laurent says. 

Jason cocks his head to the side and studies Laurent. "Is that what it takes for you, do you think? Loss, or the possibility of same?" 

Treville winces. "Jason —" 

"Forgive me," he says to Laurent. "I know that was an egregiously personal question. However, I have seen far more of you *reject* mon amant than take him the way he so dearly wishes to be — and the way you so *clearly* wish to take him." 

"Your curiosity is understandable," Laurent says, drawing himself up. "I... desire was a mysterious country to me for much of my life, when it wasn't actively distasteful and something to avoid. Masturbation was necessary maintenance — pleasurable enough, but not connected to anyone but *myself*. And then came the growth of love, need, hunger, *brotherhood*..." Laurent shakes his head. "There was still a *wall* between those things and desire. Still an *undiscovered* country. And then. 

"And then my Treville was badly injured. His back. It was clear he would heal from his wounds, but there was so much he couldn't do for himself, so much *nursing* he required. 

"I volunteered for all of it, despite the irregularity of that. I needed to. I needed to. 

"And he needed my touch. 

"He grew *hard* for my touch, again and again, and wouldn't take my words of comfort to ease his *shame*.

"And even his shame was beautiful. 

"And the walls crumbled.

"And. 

"I took his cock in my mouth and held it, just held it...

"He begged me to stop, to release him, to let him *be* —

"I couldn't. I gripped his hips — still so *slim* — and suckled, slowly and — 

"I tried to be gentle," Laurent says, and he's staring into the past — 

Licking his lips — 

"I couldn't be. I bruised his hips and sucked him *hard* and he spent, crying out like some great bird —

"He tasted... so perfect. So...

"I felt a world opening up to me. I was so dazed. So hungry and dazed. I remembered every night he'd masturbated himself in my tent. I remembered every boy I'd watched him *take*. Every encounter I'd *studied* from the shadows. I remembered everything, and I was... 

"Eventually, I realized that he was apologizing, panicking —" And Laurent pants and reaches up to touch his own mouth for a moment. "I kissed him hard, brief. I told him I desired him. I told him that I'd realized that I'd *always* desired him, and I asked him if we could be lovers. 

"He was so... so shocked. 

"Even though I'd just *fellated* him," Laurent says, and smiles softly. "I suppose I would've been, too. I..." And then Laurent blinks — 

Stares at Jason as if he'd forgotten the man was *there* — 

"I. I don't know if that answered your question or not." 

Jason narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "I think... that you've given me helpful advice that I can give other Trevilles of my acquaintance." 

Treville snorts. "Get injured humiliatingly badly and have Laurent nanny me?" 

"Make the first overture, and make it *aggressively*, amant. And, when it doesn't work, plead your case." 

"I..." 

Laurent blinks. "Oh... *yes*. No one ever *attempted* anything with me. No one I *wanted*. And, of course, I would've almost certainly been taken aback by an overture like that, but — you're my brother and my *love*, Treville. That *must* be true across the spheres." 

Treville stares. At both of them. 

Jason taps his fingers against his chin. "Oh, what is it that that charming mountain of *hair* calls you...? Something about Trepidation or the lack thereof?" 

Treville grunts and growls and wishes, deeply, for his hat to smack the man with — 

Jason laughs low and *obnoxiously* — 

*Grins* — 

"Is this my cue, amant? Or will I be needed for something else?" 

And *that* — mm. Treville closes the distance between them and uses the *privilege* of shared blood between them to touch Jason's hot, strange, bare skin — 

He doesn't even have a *moustache* — 

He — 

Oh, but he feels good — 

(And so do you,) he says, not bothering to try to hide his words from Laurent — 

"I'll always need you," Treville says, leaning in to kiss him lightly, softly — 

Jason's growl, like always, seems to come from somewhere outside himself — 

Seems to come from somewhere outside the *earth* — 

It's dark and heavy and a little *crushing* — 

It makes Treville *flush* — 

(Kiss me harder, please, amant. I've missed you...) 

*Treville* growls and — 

And this kiss is dark, violent, gripped and gripping as he wraps Jason's hair round his fist and Jason wraps those cool, smoky shadows around too *much* of him — 

(I apologize, but —) 

No, don't, don't — 

And Jason growls again, again, and this time it's flattening, harsh, needful, blanking out the parts of Treville's mind that belong to Jason now, the parts of Treville's soul that are *twined* with Jason's — 

His tongue is in Treville's *mouth* — 

The fuck is so *sweet* — 

So vicious and *sweet* — 

Treville *sucks* — 

Grips Jason *harder* — 

Shoves his leg between Jason's and nudges at him through all that mail — 

Even *it* is hot and — 

Knowing Jason, probably possessed. 

(Only a little.) 

They laugh into each other's mouths, touch and stroke — 

Pet and mouth and nuzzle and *lick* — 

Yes, lick — 

Let his *hound* out for Jason, lick him all over his *face* — 

Get that *happy* laugh, that *amused* laugh — 

"May the world — mm — *mm* — never run *out* of earth-mages — oh — Hecate's *cunt*, amant, are you licking my *mail*?" 

"It has a nice texture," Treville says, laughing and stepping back. Giving himself a moment to be — uncomplicatedly happy. 

(With me? Oh, amant. You are a gift.) And then Jason bows to Laurent, who is — politely stiff again. "Thank you for everything, Captain. I promise to return as often as I am welcome, with full reports on *every* Treville I can get my hands on. Or my *others'* hands on, as the case may be." 

Laurent frowns thoughtfully, losing some of his stiffness just that quickly, just as he *should* for the prospect of new knowledge. "How many of you *are* there." 

"I cannot answer that question, Captain, as I simply do *not* know. I'm well over six hundred years old —" 

Laurent *grunts* — 

"— and I have been walking the spheres for a *quite* significant portion of that time. I have found no end to them. What I *have* found is evidence that the spheres are *multiplying* with, seemingly, every choice *we* make — however insignificant." 

"That's... daunting. And yet also somewhat uplifting. Hm."

Jason grins and cowls himself again. "I've always found it so. It tends to suggest that, however badly humanity fucks up one sphere, or several, there will *always* be another chance. Another way to... make amends." And he raises an eyebrow. 

Laurent inhales sharply, and bows. "Just so, Sir Jason." 

"Until we meet again," he says, and steps into the smudge on the air. 

It disappears gradually — 

And then he and Laurent are alone, and — 

And. 

Treville sits on Laurent's desk. 

Laurent sits beside him. "How will we do this, do you think?" 

"Abject mendacity with everyone *but* Kitos and Reynard —" 

Laurent winces, but nods. "You took a blow to the head." 

"And was drunk when it happened." 

"You forgot all your recent conversations." 

"That I did," Treville says, and neatens his beard and moustache. "Where *are* our brothers?"

"They *should* be working with the recruits, so they may, possibly, be getting them drunk." 

"Are you planning to make them *lieutenants*, brother?" 

"No, not so soon, but our current lieutenants are too strict, and Kitos and Reynard *are* wonderful teachers. The boys deserved a break." 

Treville grunts and grins. "You're a damned good Captain, sir." 

"I... am already growing accustomed to you being older than I am." 

Treville blinks. And thinks about how they've been relating to each other for much of the past hour... "I... I'm not sure how I feel about that, brother." 

Laurent laughs softly. "I promise not to stop putting you *firmly* on your knees when we're making love, brother." 

"I *am* sure how I feel about that," Treville says, and grins a little. Just a little, though. He can smell — 

He can taste, on the air — 

Laurent's next breath is a shuddering one. "He gave me everything." 

"He had to. You were yourself." 

"He gave me — I kept him from Kitos and Reynard." 

Treville raises his eyebrows. "How's that? Did you keep them from *riding* together or something?" 

"Never that. That would've been..." Laurent shakes his head. "They were my best unit. You know that." 

He does. "Then?" 

"He didn't think..." Laurent frowns, and stares down at his lap. He's at least partially shamed by whatever it is he wants to say. 

Treville cups his knee. "Tell me, brother. Get it out." 

"He honestly believed that they didn't desire him. That..." Laurent pants and looks up. "I was going to tell him again, *argue* with him until he *understood* that their love for him was more than simply *chaste*. And then... then I was going to go to Kitos and Reynard myself." 

Treville... grunts. "You... think. You — Laurent?" 

"Oh, brother, do you labour under the same misconception? They've been in love with you from the very beginning! They simply needed —" Laurent stands and turns and *grips* Treville's shoulders. "Reynard came from a regiment where men who made love with men were tortured and raped and murdered —" 

"*What*? He never — he never said a *word* —" 

"Not to *you*, no, but that's one of the reasons why he *wanted* to be a Musketeer. He wanted *true* brotherhood, with men who wouldn't murder each other for such petty —" Laurent growls. "Kitos would do *anything* for you. They *both* would do anything for you. And you're about to tell me that they've both rejected you —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"But they needed *time*. They didn't know themselves so well when you first approached them that way, and I — *I* understand that sort of thing *better* than you do, brother. Do you see?" 

Treville frowns. "And you're saying that they wouldn't approach me *themselves* after that, even though they're supposedly in love with me —" 

"Brother, they're both *fully* aware that *we're* together, and they have no reason to believe that I would *share*." 

That — "And on spheres where the two of us have never so much as —" 

"I can't *think* of those — but. No. I will. I will," Laurent says, and squeezes Treville's shoulders almost painfully hard. 

Shudders — 

*Shudders* — 

And Treville can't make him do this, can't make him do this *alone*. This is *important* to him, and he needs this, needs this for *him*, and for his brother who's so far *away* now, and — 

And he can actually use his mind, can't he? 

He can think about what *he* would do in a situation where he'd mucked-up a chance to make love with someone he cared about — *loved* — only to discover that he did want it, wanted it more than — 

And he's too much of a dog, now, not to be *obvious* about that kind of thing — Ife had been plain about just how *little* dogs are meant to keep secrets from their loved ones, and that had *mostly* played out just as she'd said — 

But. 

But. 

He wouldn't be so *willing* to be obvious. 

He wouldn't be so — 

He wouldn't go *running* to say 'hey, remember how I rejected you? Try me again!' Because — who would? 

Who *could*? 

For a moment, his mind fills with Porthos as he'll be as an adult, so brash and bold and *fierce* — 

"Oh... brother, he's *beautiful*." 

Treville shivers. "Yes. He is," he says, and smiles wryly. "But even he wouldn't be able to... of course, he probably wouldn't muck things up so badly in the *first* place." 

"He is... wise?" 

"He is *beautiful*, inside and out, and he learned, at a young age, not to... squander gifts. He knows love is a gift." 

"Oh..." 

"I mean..." Treville laughs hard. "He still drinks too much, and he's *never* given up on the cardsharping, or the dicing, and he occasionally has *terrible* taste in people — if you're kind to him, he'll give you the *world* —"

"You love him." 

"Madly. Absolutely — when I think about what he's *suffered* —" 

"Let me send one of the stableboys to track down Kitos and Reynard so we can *tell* them —" 

"— and I can get to my Amina-love," Treville says, and scrubs at his face. "I *will* convince her to move into the manor, where it's safe."

"You'll extricate her from Belgard?" 

"I'm thinking of murdering him." 

"I — hm." 

"You definitely didn't hear that." 

"Hear what?" 

"Birdsong, I believe —" 

"Mm. What did he do?" 

"Hire an amateur assassin to murder Amina and the babe —"

"Those birds are *terribly* loud," Laurent says, eyes *hot*. "You're going to have to do something about them." 

"That I will, sir." 

"I will, of course, do what I must to take care of the resulting... mess." 

Treville's heart — swells in his chest. 

His eyes burn. 

He — "Yes, sir. Of course, sir." 

Laurent cups the back of his neck and squeezes *hard* — 

Treville breathes, going loose all over — 

"Have you thought about... moving in with Marie-Angelique and me?" 

Treville blinks... but. "With Amina and the babe?" 

"Yes," Laurent says, firm and sure.

"You might want to talk to Marie-Angelique about that first, sir," Treville says, and grins. 

"She's always wanted more of you — and your *knot*." 

Treville *grunts*. 

"And she's long been fascinated with the *mystery* of your Amina — the *only* other woman in your life." 

Treville *swallows*. "I — I've always thought... they'd get on. They're both so strong-willed, but also open-minded. Such humour and grace and *warmth* —" 

"*Wit* and *wisdom*." 

"*Yes*, sir —" 

"Is that what you'd have of me, now, brother? Mm? A Sir?" 

Ah — fuck. He's making Laurent take control — "I — don't have to. *We* don't have to —" 

"Shh. Answer the question. And remember just how much I crave taking you in hand." 

Treville licks his lips. "I've... wondered how much of that was *work* for you, sir." 

"None of it. Ever." 

"Oh... sir." 

"Answer my question." 

Treville pants, and lowers his head. 

Laurent growls — it comes out like a purr. "Should I take *that* as an answer... recruit?" 

*Fuck* —

The *smile* in Laurent's voice — 

The *heaviness* of the hand on the back of Treville's *neck* — and everything they still need to do. Treville lifts *up* — and smiles wryly at Laurent. "Yes, *sir*. But..." 

"Not now," Laurent says, and licks his lips. "I appreciate your resilience very much, brother," he says, and moves his hand from Treville's neck.

"Thank you —" 

"I'll break it one day," he says, calm and matter-of-fact as he walks to the door, presumably to call a stableboy to play messenger. 

He — 

He really just said that. 

And meant it. 

Treville grins. "I certainly hope so, sir." 

Laurent smiles *hotly* back over his shoulder in the moments before opening the door. 

Treville... prepares for his new life. 

end of ending three.


	20. Ending Four:  This is why we let him make the plans.

Treville *grunts* as the power he's holding — and that's gripping him *back* — suddenly changes *feel* — 

His feet hit something solid and *flat* — 

There are *cracks* sounding all around him — 

Cracks in the *air* — 

It's the power, the power, he's holding too much — 

And something in him tells him to let go, that it's *time* to let go, that it's — 

He breathes, steady and slow as he can with what feels like every part of the (MOTHER) earth rushing *through* him — 

He *breathes*, and when that (MOTHER) something shows him how to release that power — 

How to give it *back* (to the MOTHER) — 

He gives — 

He gives and gives and *gives*, and it feels like bloody *spending* — 

He's *groaning* —

He's shaking and *jerking* — 

And, gradually, he becomes aware that Kitos and Reynard are in the same straits next to him. 

The little — 

The MOTHER tells him when to stop giving — 

He stops — 

He *staggers* — 

Kitos *grabs* him — 

Reynard grabs *both* of them — 

And Laurent clears his throat. Pointedly. 

They are *absolutely* in his office, and they've wrecked it a bit — there's parchment bloody everywhere — and — 

"Where have you three *been*?" 

Treville staggers *free* of Kitos and Reynard, shakes himself *exactly* like the hound he is, staggers more — 

"Are you *drunk*?" 

"Not a bit of it, sir. We've just been in the future — twenty-five years in the future to be exact." 

Laurent *frowns*. "*Why* were you doing that kind of witchcraft?" 

Kitos laughs hard. "God bless you for being the most unflappable man on the bloody planet, sir." 

"*Thank* you, Kitos. But...?" 

"It wasn't our choice, sir," Treville says, and shakes himself again — he's still tingling all over. "We were all out for a drink the other night and then, suddenly, we were out for a drink in the future. And on another sphere very similar to ours." 

Laurent nods thoughtfully. "Are you all well?" 

"Yes, sir," they all say, reasonably simultaneously. 

Reynard moves up to join Treville at the desk. "I... would like to talk to you about something, sir. When you have a moment." 

*That* makes Laurent blink, which is fair, since Treville's blinking — and he can feel Kitos doing the same. 

"Reynard... you want to speak to me about something in *private*?" 

"It need not be, sir," Reynard says, and smiles ruefully. "But I thought you might have other things you wished to do first." 

Laurent smiles back. "Like dress you all down for dereliction of your duties?" He shakes his head. "Did you *try* to get back as soon as you could?" 

"We did let the other witch who we were told could help us get a good night's sleep, sir," Kitos says. 

Laurent waves a helpless hand. "I would, quite frankly, do the same," he says, standing and moving among them — 

Examining them *himself* — 

Treville grins and winks when Laurent cups his chin and looks down into his eyes. "I'm willing to lie down for this, sir." 

"Shh. Are you weakened?" 

"I —" 

"Yes or no?" 

"Physically, yes. Magically, no." 

"The difference?" 

"I could use a nap, sir. But if anyone were to attack me right now, they'd regret it *immensely*, anyway." 

Laurent frowns and nods, looking *into* him for another long, long, *long* moment that makes Treville — want. 

He can't *not* want — 

(We know this well, meneur...) 

(That we do,) Kitos says, and coughs into his fist — 

And then Laurent moves away, bracing Kitos and cupping his face, forcing him to look down into his eyes — 

"Sir —" 

"Shh." 

"I'm —" 

"Kitos." 

"Right, yes, sir." 

"Are you in any pain, Kitos?" 

"Other —" 

"Other than your pride." 

"I — no, sir." 

"Exhaustion?" 

"I'll sleep well tonight, sir, but, other than that, I'm well." 

"Mm," Laurent says, narrowing his eyes and *petting* Kitos's bearded cheeks — 

Kitos shivers — 

Laurent pulls back and moves to Reynard — 

"My turn, sir?" 

"Yes," Laurent says, cupping his face and studying him, looking down the short distance — 

"I am not in pain —" 

"Exhaustion?" 

"I, too, will sleep well tonight — prayerfully in my brothers' arms." And Reynard raises an eyebrow. 

Laurent pauses, all over, but doesn't blink, and doesn't move his hands from Reynard's face. "Was my little brother Fearless, after all...?" 

"He was *perfect*. *I* needed correction, sir. *I* needed to be... set aright —" 

"*Reynard* —" 

"*No*, meneur, let me tell the *truth*," Reynard says, and never tries to look away from Laurent. "I... I saw him grow enamored with his *boy*. His *liege*." 

"His —" *This* gets another blink from Laurent, but, again, his break in composure doesn't *last*. "Amina's son — fully-grown." 

"He is beautiful, sir. *Big*. Notre meneur wanted him from the *beginning*. Wanted him for far more than a *dalliance*, you see?" 

"You grew jealous." 

"Yes, sir —" 

"You grew *desperate*," Laurent says — and it's almost a growl — 

He's leaning *closer* — 

He's — 

"Oh — *yes*, sir —" 

"You would've done anything to *have* your *brothers*." 

"Oui, oui, s'il vous plait —" 

"It had been so *long*, you were lonely —" 

"Sir — *Captain* —" 

"You thought you'd lost them *forever* and you were —" And Laurent growls and *kisses* Reynard — 

Kisses Reynard hard and — 

Reynard flails, obviously unsure what to do with his *hands* — but. He kisses Laurent back. He — 

They're kissing so deeply, so *roughly* — 

Laurent — 

*Reynard* — 

And Treville can't think, can't — 

It's not that he hasn't had this fantasy, this beautiful *dream*, but — 

He's growling so *helplessly* — 

Laurent pushes Reynard *back* — 

Reynard *gasps*, flushed and blinking and dazed — "Sir — *sir* —" 

"One *moment*," Laurent says, and *advances* on Treville — 

Treville snarls and pounces and — they knock more shelving askew, more parchment falls, and Laurent's first kiss lands on his cheek, his teeth scrape Treville's stubble — 

Treville *whines*, turns — 

And Laurent kisses him *violently*, *shoving* him back against the shelving and fucking his mouth hard, fast, slick, *dirty* — 

Treville croons and bucks and takes it, *takes* it — 

So good — 

Oh, *Laurent* — 

But he pulls back before Treville can get a *grip* on him, he — 

"Oh — *shit*," Kitos says, laughing nervously as Laurent *stalks* toward him. "Can we talk about this, sir?" 

"Do you need to." 

"I..." And Kitos licks his lips. He looks *hunted*. 

He also looks hard as stone. 

He — he looks even better when Laurent cups him through his *trousers* — 

"*Fuck*, sir —" 

"Is that what you want to call me, Kitos?" 

"*Laurent*, Jesus, what — *what* —" 

"*Bend*." 

Kitos does immediately — and Laurent cups his face with his other hand, grips his *beard*, kisses him, kisses him so *sweetly* — 

Kitos moans and *shakes* — 

Laurent *massages* him through his trousers — 

Laurent sucks Kitos's *lips* — 

And Treville is moments away from tossing himself off and begging. 

He's moments away from tossing himself off and begging in yips and croons and *whines* — 

He's — 

Laurent pulls back enough to trace Kitos's mouth with the tip of his *tongue* — 

"Oh, *shit*, sir —" 

"Do you like that, brother?" 

"*Yes* —" 

"I learned it from my wife, who finds you quite fascinatingly gigantic. I told her your cock was much bigger than my own. She spent screaming." 

Reynard *grunts* — 

Kitos moans — 

Treville starts stripping. 

Laurent smiles. "Good boys. Did I mention that I missed you? Because I did. Terribly." 

Kitos shudders. "*Yes*, sir —" 

Reynard is tugging at his leathers with desperate clumsiness — 

And Laurent takes a quick, thoughtful breath — 

They all pause — 

Laurent wets his lips — 

Treville *whines* — 

"Oh, fucking hell, brother, at least let Fearless get naked. He might sprain something otherwise," Kitos says. 

"Yes, I imagine — hm. But not naked —" 

Treville whines more *pathetically* — 

And Laurent proves he's lost none of his *speed* since becoming Captain eight months ago — 

He slams Treville against the *wall* — 

"You." 

"*Yes*, Laurent —" 

"*You* will let me make you spend." 

"*Fuck* — anything you *want*, Laurent!" 

Laurent growls — "Anything?"

"*Yes*." 

They pant in each other's faces for a long moment — 

And then Laurent narrows his eyes. "Kitos. Reynard." 

"Oui?" 

"Yeah, brother?" 

"Would you mind terribly if I —" 

"Focused on your special pet for just a minute? We *understand*," Kitos says, and booms laughter. 

"Special —" Laurent frowns and *starts* to turn — 

Treville whines again — 

Laurent *whips* his head back round — 

Kitos laughs *harder* and *louder* — 

"I see. I see what you mean. Mm. Nevertheless," Laurent says, cupping Treville's shoulder and holding him against the wall by it before stepping back — 

"Oh — please —" 

"Shh, brother." 

"Fuck —" 

"Shh." 

"Yes — yes, Laurent," Treville says, and *blushes* —

Reynard grunts — 

And Laurent finishes opening Treville's breeches one-handed and *grips* Treville's cock — 

Treville *groans*, arching back — 

"*Nevertheless*," Laurent says, and *licks* Treville's throat — 

Growls — 

Kitos laughs more — "Yeah, brother? Got something to share?" 

"You're *all* my brothers. I've spent the past three days alternately fretting myself into an early retirement over your disappearance and failure to leave any sort of message — other than the one *Ife* could read in the 'imbalance in the energies of the world' — and making *plans* for your return." 

Treville blinks — 

He can *feel* Kitos and Reynard *freezing* a little — 

"Laurent, mon frère, that is a bit... ominous?" 

Laurent grins at *him* — and begins to *stroke* — 

Treville *croons* — 

Laurent *flushes* — 

"Fuck, Basset, I've started having *reflexes* for that sound." 

Treville gasps a laugh — "I hope so, you great berk —" 

"Shh. Brother," Laurent says, and his voice is smooth as silk despite his flush; despite the sweat starting to bead at his temples; despite his wide, wild *eyes* — "Don't you want to hear about my plans?" 

Treville opens his mouth — 

"We are *afraid* of your plans, frère —" 

"Are you afraid of me, Reynard...?" And Laurent still isn't looking *away* from Treville — 

Laurent is still *looming* — 

Still — 

Still *tossing him off* — 

Treville tries to catch his breath and *can't* — 

Tries to keep from crooning again and *can't* — 

Tries — "*Please* —" 

"Please *what*, little brother." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Please. What." 

"*Harder*! Please!" 

Laurent grins *savagely* and squeezes *hard* — 

Treville *barks* — 

Laurent strokes him without letting *up* — 

Treville barks again — 

*Again* — 

"Shit," Kitos says — 

"Do you have reflexes for this sound, as well, brother?" And Laurent is studying Treville so *fixedly* — 

"*Yes* —" 

"And you, Reynard?" 

"Most of them involve me bending over..." 

"That is *terribly* intriguing — mm. Has he mounted you?" 

"*Merde* — I — frère —" 

"Has he?" 

"Not — properly." 

Laurent raises an eyebrow and *twists* his hand, *raking* him with his hilt-callus — just the way Treville had told him he *liked* when he was fourteen and being *interrogated* about masturbation in Laurent's *tent* — 

Treville croons and bucks and bucks and *yips* — 

Laurent *pants* — "What does 'properly' mean in this context, Reynard," he says, and doesn't *stop* — 

"He did not... ah. Tie me." 

Laurent *snarls*, squeezing him *viciously* hard — 

And Treville can't — he *howls* — 

Laurent gasps and squeezes his *knot* — 

Treville *barks* again — and starts to *spurt* — just — 

All over *both* of them — 

"S-sorry —" 

"*No*," Laurent says, and *pumps* Treville's knot —

Treville howls again — 

*Again* — 

Throws his head back and just — 

He can't do anything but howl and spend and *give* himself to Laurent, all of himself for *Laurent* — 

Beautiful and hard and strong and — 

Touching him, pumping him, *hurting* him for this, finally for *this* — 

Treville bucks *hard* and spurts just a little bit more — 

Slumps against the wall — 

Laurent *growls* — 

Treville *jerks* upright — 

Blinks and tries to *focus* — 

"For that, little brother? For only that?" 

And it's a *reasonable* question — but. "I — it's so much. It's so much more than what I've had. Than what *we've* had." 

Laurent growls and kisses him, growls into his *mouth*, grinds their slick leathers together — 

Treville is still *shaking* — 

And the kiss is too brief. Laurent pulls back and starts sucking and licking at his slick *fingers* — 

Treville's cock *spasms* — 

Laurent tugs his fingers from his mouth. "Your taste is different from your scents — more different, even, than the changes in your scents would suggest. I'm disappointed and thrilled at once." 

Treville — whimpers. 

"Yes, I concur... mm." And Laurent shakes his head once, pulls two handkerchiefs from his breast pocket, and hands one to Treville. "Wipe yourself down and dress yourself. We have traveling to do." 

Treville *stares* — but takes the handkerchief — 

Doesn't ask the man *why* he has two — 

Doesn't — 

*Doesn't* — 

No. "Why do you have two handkerchiefs, brother?" 

Laurent pauses in wiping himself down, and looks to all of them. "When I haven't been working and planning for your return, I've been grieving your loss. Fearing and — hurting." 

"Oh — *fuck*, Laurent," Kitos says, moving in and cupping Laurent's shoulders, squeezing — 

"Thank you, Kitos. It was a difficult time which I'm quite glad is over," Laurent says, and sucks the *handkerchief* — 

Reynard and Treville *both* moan — 

Laurent *hands* the handkerchief *to* Reynard — 

"*Fuck* — I —" 

"Thank me." 

Reynard *moans*. "*Thank* you, mon frère," he says, and sucks at the slickest part of the cloth — 

*Moans* — 

Treville *winces* as he laces up his trousers — 

His cock is *rebelling* — 

Reynard is sucking at the handkerchief so *hungrily* — 

Moaning more and *slurping* — 

"Fucking *shit*, fox-face, let's not go so long without you getting some of that straight from the source, eh?" 

Reynard groans and nods and — 

And rubs the handkerchief over his *beard* — 

Treville *growls* — 

And Laurent nods in satisfaction. "We'll be going to your manor, Treville." 

"We — what?" 

"As I've said, I've been preparing for your return," Laurent says, folding his hands behind his back and pacing among them. "After Ife told me what she could about what had happened to the three of you, I began reflecting on the time I had spent doing all too little about my feelings for all of you. The time I had *wasted* in *dithering* on the nature of desire — and the nature of correctness. 

"It had become *abundantly* clear that I *had* wasted time —" 

"Oh, brother, no," Kitos says, "you — you *needed* that time." 

Laurent pauses in his pacing and raises an eyebrow at Kitos. "Did I? Perhaps. I, in this moment, with my little brother's flavours in my mouth at *last*, with every memory of every occasion I *might* have had them fresh in my *mind*... I am not so certain about that. But let me continue." 

Kitos nods, frowning. 

Laurent nods back. "I've been preparing. And I have not been thinking only of myself, and my selfish hungers — even though they are... many," he says, and growls again, while looking Kitos up and down — 

Kitos *blinks* —

Laurent wets his lips and keeps moving — 

Pauses by Reynard, who offers the *damp* handkerchief — 

Laurent shakes his head and leans in to bury his face against Reynard's *throat* — 

Reynard *swallows* — 

Laurent *bites* — 

Reynard *moans* —

Laurent bites *harder* — 

"*Nnh* — mon frère — s'il vous plait —" 

Laurent pulls back — "So formal, still?" 

"I — sir — I mean —" 

"Shh. I'll teach you better," Laurent says, with quiet certainty, while staring at Reynard's parted lips. "Perhaps while you're being mounted." 

"*Merde* —" 

"Or while Marie-Angelique is," Laurent says, and pauses. 

And waits for them all to just cough and *gape* at him for a moment — 

Treville finally finishes wiping himself down — "What —" 

"Give your handkerchief to Kitos, little brother." 

Kitos groans —

Treville bloody hops *to* — 

And watches Kitos sniff it, and lick it — and wipe his beard with it. 

Just — 

Kitos looks so rueful —- 

He — "Kitos..." 

He shrugs. "Maybe fox-face isn't the only one who needed the source." 

Treville *moans* — 

Laurent nods again. "As I was saying, little brother — you'll have the option of mounting my wife tonight, who I sent for after receiving Ife's message. She's long hungered for you, and for the chance for the three of us to make love together —" 

"Oh my — fuck — *fuck* —" 

"— and she's *quite* fond of Kitos and Reynard —" 

"*Laurent* —" 

"— and she's waiting for us at your manor." 

"I." 

"As is your Amina." 

Treville grunts *hard*. 

Kitos booms laughter. "That's got him." 

"Laurent, mon frère, how did you convince *her*? She barely tolerates us at times!" 

Laurent ducks his head and presses a knuckle to his moustache. 

And that — 

Treville moves in close. "*About* that, brother. What did you do, mm? Because *that* looks like something a little bit dishonourable." 

"I... may have left my conversation with Amina at 'Treville is in trouble', letting Marie-Angelique handle the rest..." 

Kitos guffaws —

Laurent blushes — 

Treville *stares* — 

And Reynard grins. "Well, I suppose we will see, once and for all, just *how* deft your Marie-Angelique *is* at such things." 

Laurent hums. "Even if she will only touch Treville... well. It must happen. No more time can be wasted." 

"That's more true than you know, brother," Treville says, and reflexively checks to make sure his weapons are all sitting right. "I was going to gather you all together anyway, to talk about what we learned of how things *went* in the future if we all behaved the way we generally *would*." 

Laurent frowns. "That sounds... potentially terrible." 

"No potentially about it, brother," Kitos says. "Probably the *best* news we can give you is that your eldest boy goes against your wishes and turns himself into a drunkard of a Musketeer. A *good* Musketeer — but the kind *Fearless*, as Captain, has to dress down *for* his drunkenness. *Repeatedly*." 

Laurent blanches. 

"Well, that's not the best news. The best news is that he's got a great lover. A recruit, on the stroppy side, but actually pretty warm. Sweet. Eh, lads?" 

Reynard wags his head and nods. 

Treville does much the same. 

Laurent blinks — and very obviously breathes. "They're... happy? My son is happy with this boy?" 

"A man grown, really," Treville says. "He was nineteen, and well on his way to his commission. And... I don't know if I would say he was happy." 

"He had... much pain in his heart, frère." 

"Yeah, *that*," Kitos says. "But he loved d'Artagnan, and d'Artagnan loved him, and they were good for each other, and they worked to make each other happy, and they managed it *sometimes*." 

Laurent *winces* and nods, gathering his cloak. "Tell me the rest as we ride. I had your horses brought back here —" He shakes his head. "Let's go." 

And that's what they do. 

They tell Laurent everything he needs to know on the ride to the de Tréville lands. He asks few questions — taking in the information as it is and... 

Treville isn't sure. 

Is he digesting it? 

Is he swallowing it whole? 

Is he plotting very *organized* mayhem? 

(Bite him and *see*, meneur.) 

As soon as we *stop* — 

(You could have him reach out to you now, to your hungry mouth, to —) 

"Hm. *Is* there more I need to know, brothers?" 

"Basset needs to bite you," Kitos says, snickering like a boy — 

"'Basset' — ah, because of the changes that he has chosen for himself." 

"I still can't believe Ife *told* you —" 

"She didn't, little brother," Laurent says. "They were simply rather obvious." 

"I." 

Reynard *splutters* — 

Kitos *wheezes* — 

"You've always had a certain canine je ne sais quoi, little brother —" 

"Laurent —" 

" — but you must admit that, when you returned from the witches, several days ago —" 

"For fuck's sake —" 

"— you were rather... well." 

Kitos throws his head back and guffaws some more — 

His horse, who has dealt with much worse, just flicks his ears and accepts —

"Mon frère." 

"Yes, Reynard?" 

"You didn't *say* anything the other day." 

"No, I didn't. It was a very fraught day," Laurent says, and guides his bay around a hole in the road. "And he certainly didn't seem to be *stymied* by the changes that had been —" 

"*Laurent*." 

"Yes, little brother....?" And Laurent's smile is sly, so *fucking* sly. 

Treville snorts. 

Reynard wags a finger at him. "You should be careful, frère. You know, notre meneur, he actually *listens* to you. You might have been able to *stop* him from doing this." 

"Mm, I doubt that. After all — didn't you do it to protect Amina and her child?" 

"Yes —" 

Laurent spreads his hands, careful of the reins. "One does not squander one's command." 

That — Treville grunts. "That's the first time I've ever heard you admit that you actually spend time *thinking* about how to lord it over the rest of us, brother." 

Laurent smiles slyly again. "Have I tarnished my mystique...?" 

Kitos snorts. "I'm sure Basset'll polish it right up again for you." 

Treville salutes Kitos right and proper from across Laurent — 

Kitos salutes him *back* — and shoves his tongue between his fingers — 

And Treville thinks of — women. 

Of. Of *fucking* women — 

Of exactly what his *moderately* mad brother has planned — 

He thinks of Amina. 

Of — 

Of what it had been like to be changed to *this* — 

To be merged with *something* like a dog and — 

And changed. 

All he'd done that night was carry his Amina-love to Ife's bed and make her comfortable, make her right, feel her, feel the babe inside her — 

And — 

And everything about her had been intense and beautiful and perfect, everything about her touch had shaken him, *convulsed* him inside, *made* him — 

He's her *knight* now, and — 

And now that he can think a little bit — 

Now that he can breathe air that isn't scented with his own spend or *only* his brothers' lusts — 

He can feel her. 

Close. 

He can feel the babe, too. The babe who will grow into that beautiful *man* — 

But. 

Amina. 

*Amina* — 

And he knows, now, that she can feel him, that she'd felt it when he'd left this sphere, that she'd missed him — 

(Oh, so *now* you care about this?) 

Treville *grunts* — 

Yanks on the reins — 

(Jean-*Armand*. If you lose control of your horse and kill yourself, I will *murder* you!) 

Amina — 

(Shut it and get *control*!) 

He does just that. He — 

"Are you quite all right, little brother?" 

Reynard snickers. "He is well, frère. Amina is simply taking him to *task*." 

"What — but —" 

"*Mentally*," Kitos says. "They've shared blood — and apparently a whole lot of other things, too. They can do that now." 

"Can *you*?" 

"Aye. That's why he wants to bite you —" 

"I want him to bite me *immediately* —" 

"Let Amina yell at him first, frère. She is *due*." 

"Oh, I suppose that's. Hm. I'm impatient," Laurent says, and *watches* him making an arse of himself — 

Kitos and Reynard are *snickering* — 

*They* can *feel* Amina boiling under his skin — 

(That we can, Basset.) 

*Brochet*, his black, can feel exactly how scattered and *emotional* he is — 

No, no, he's no *child*. He rumbles. 

Brochet flicks his ears in curiosity. 

"Yeah, you haven't heard that sound from me, but it's a good one, I promise," he says, and rumbles more — 

And more, calming himself down — 

Thinking of Amina's *scents* — 

Oh, that's good — 

That's so good, and he can *sleep* with her again, maybe — 

If he's a good dog — 

He rumbles and rumbles — 

Nice and low, nice and calm — 

He pats Brochet's neck, rumbles a few sweet nothings — 

And really, Brochet's calm again, but it's good to get him accustomed to *this* kind of soothing, this kind of *gentling* — 

Get him used to having a *dog* on his back — 

(Hmph.) 

Amina-love — 

(Where *were* you?) 

I — can we wait until we're all there? Talk to Marie-Angelique, too? 

(Tell me! And then you can tell us the *details* when you're here,) she says, and sounds... calmer. 

More mollified? 

Is that *possible*? 

Are you... getting on with Marie-Angelique? 

(She is a very sensible person. Unlike *you*. Tell me!) 

We were in the future —

(You were — but. But... that *was* my son you were thinking about. You... you know his name...) 

Treville licks his lips and focuses on the road as best he can. It's stony this close to his lands. I do... 

(I wanted it to be a surprise...) 

It was! A good one! 

She laughs in his mind, soft and sweet and a kind of endless — (My brother...) 

Yours — 

(I named him for *you*.) 

Treville grunts — Amina-love — 

(He is... he will be... I will raise him to be just like you, my brother. A beautiful, sweet, loving, brilliant, magnificent *scoundrel*.) 

Treville laughs helplessly — He's — he grows up so —

(Oh my — you — you desire *him*?) 

Um... 

(JEAN-ARMAND YOU STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!) 

I — 

(He's — I want him to be YOUR son!) 

Treville blinks — 

Regroups — 

Tries to pin his cock back as much as — 

(Yes, do *that*!) 

Amina-love — 

(Oh — you are the *worst*!) 

I — we — we're riding onto — 

(I can see you with the spyglass, just a little — you *deviant* —) 

I didn't know he was — my son? Our son? Oh, *Amina-love*... 

She's silent. 

Silent — 

He can feel her *blushing* — 

Please talk to me more, please tell me — 

(Only — only if you *want* —) 

I want all your babes! Our babes! 

(Please stop sounding as if you will *eat* them!) 

I... 

(... our babes?) 

Treville rumbles and rumbles and *flexes* — 

(Jean-*Armand* —) 

*Please* stop calling me that — 

(— you want me!) 

Treville pants — 

*Pants* — 

I — yeah. Yeah. I do. And I don't — we don't have to — I just need to *smell* you sometimes — 

(You don't need to touch me?) 

Treville groans — 

Brochet flicks his ears — 

(You don't need to *fuck* me, brother?) 

Oh shit — Amina — Amina, *don't* — 

(Don't *what*? Make you speak the *truth*?) 

Treville whines and whines and — 

(You are upsetting that poor horse! Stop that!) 

*Amina* — 

(Stop that and come *here*,) she says, and shows him herself — 

Shows him — 

She's *naked* — 

She's — 

So big and round with the *babe* — 

Her nipples are huge and dark on her heavy breasts — 

Wet with the milk the witches had induced early — 

Dripping — 

She's *stroking* her belly — 

She's — 

She's stroking down and down to her *sex*, to her dark, thick, *wiry* curls — 

She spreads them — 

She's so wet — 

She's so *wet* — 

And there's laughter in Treville's mind — 

There's — 

*Unfamiliar* laughter — 

And *then* Treville realizes that he's not looking into a mirror, that he's not looking through his Amina-love's eyes — 

(Surprise?) And Marie-Angelique giggles — 

And the view *switches* to one through Amina's eyes — 

Marie-*Angelique* is naked, plump and pink and — 

And oh. 

Oh. 

She has a new scar, low on her hip. 

(You are not the only one who can do this magic, my brother,) Amina says, and laughs *low*. 

*Fuck*. I — I — *please*!

Marie-Angelique giggles again and rests one pale, soft hand over Amina's on her belly. (See? I told you to trust in Laurent, sweet.) 

Amina laughs low and shocked and *dirty* all at once. (I cannot believe. My brother. You are looking at this — *this* — with such lust!) 

They *changed* me! But — but it's so much *better*, it's — it was *wrong* that I didn't need you in every *way*! 

Amina groans — (My brother...) 

Yours! 

(Faster!) 

I — 

(*Faster*!) And she *pushes* him away — 

Treville *gasps* — he's in his own stables. He's — 

And Laurent is right there waiting to help him down. 

Like he's an *invalid* — 

"Don't be prideful now, little brother. I need to *touch* you again." 

He — can't argue with that even a little bit. He lets Laurent help him — 

He lets Laurent *kiss* him — 

Right in front of the stableboys — 

Well, they've seen worse — 

From him — 

Often — 

He cups Laurent's handsome face — 

He pushes his hands into that thick, wonderful hair the way he's wanted to forever — 

He has to let Laurent *know* this — he pulls back. "Let me bite you." 

Laurent grunts and *yanks* the collar of his leathers aside. 

"Oh — shit, brother — that's not *subtle*." 

"Accidents *happen*." 

"You're absolutely right," Treville says, shifting his teeth — 

Laurent gasps — 

Treville bites, right at the join of throat to *shoulder* — 

Laurent gasps *again* — 

Grips Treville's shoulders hard, painfully *hard* — 

"Oh — little brother — how — how will I go without *this*?" 

Treville cups him through his trousers as he laps, as he sucks, as he laps to *heal* — 

"How will I — oh —" 

I'll distract you... 

Laurent *grunts*, knees buckling — 

Treville *catches* him by the hip with his other hand —

(Brother!) 

I love you, I love you, I've always bloody *loved* — 

Laurent growls low and cups the back of Treville's head, *presses* him to the wound — 

Would you feed me? 

(I — I would suckle you like a *babe*!)

Um. 

And — 

There's a *loud* silence from the others — 

A very — 

(Hm. I suspect I said something odd.) 

I... 

(Bite me again anyway. Let me *feel*.) 

Laurent — 

(*Do* it.) 

Treville moans and shoves Laurent's tunic down off his arms, opens his shirt, pushes it to the side — 

(Oh, little brother...) 

He bites Laurent' s *pectoral* muscle — 

"Hnh —" 

Do you like that? Do you like me hurting you here? 

Laurent groans and grips him, holds him, *caresses* him — 

Musses Treville's hair — 

Slips down to cup Treville's *throat* — 

Squeezes — 

Treville *gulps* — 

Slurps and moans and laps desperately, *needily* — 

(Oh... little brother...) And Laurent squeezes *harder* — 

Cuts off Treville's *air* — 

Treville shifts his teeth back to human and *sucks* at the wound — 

Sucks hard and — 

And *needily* — 

He has to, he *has* to — 

(I want to put you on your *knees* —) 

"But we've ladies waiting *patiently* for us," Kitos says, and clears his throat like a musket-crack for emphasis. 

Laurent grunts — 

*Pushes* Treville back — 

Treville blinks, dazed and wet-mouthed and *hungry* —

And Laurent looks no better, no clearer in his mind —- 

"Come, frères, let us see what they will let us *do*, mm?" And Reynard *gently* prises Laurent's fingers from around Treville's throat. "I, for one, hunger for a woman's touch —" 

Treville blinks — 

Growls — 

*Stares* at Reynard — 

And Reynard licks his sharp canines and winks. "Oui, cher? You will be harsh with me? You will not let me touch...?" 

"I —" 

"You will keep me — and Laurent, and Kitos, and Amina, and Marie-Angelique — all to yourself? Mm?" 

And that's a thought that's both daunting and *extremely* attractive... 

Kitos laughs hard and starts *shoving* him out the door — 

"*Hey* —" 

"Let's *go*, Basset. You can firm up your plans for sexual world domination *later* —" 

"You *have* to let me lose a little bit of my mind when Reynard is *teasing* me!" 

"No, I don't." 

"Yes —" 

"Non, non, meneur, there are *ladies* waiting." 

"I still —" 

"Big, *fat* ladies," Kitos says, and growls. "*Pregnant* — say. Laurent..." 

"Yes, Kitos?" And — bless him — he's neatened his leathers again. 

"*Is* Marie-Angelique up the duff? She's got a nice little glow about her, and she *does* look like she's put on a few pounds." 

Laurent puffs up like a cock among the hens. "She confirmed it just last week." 

They send up a cheer and clap him on the back and lift him up — 

"Oh — really — *brothers* —" 

They carry him *right* into the manor — 

"You mustn't — it's not like it was *work* —" 

They sing marching songs up the stairs — 

"This is the single most undignified —" 

But he's blushing — 

And trying not to smile — 

And — 

And Treville can't help thinking, a little, about how many times they just *haven't* done silly, ridiculous shit like this with Laurent — 

About how he's had no one *to* do this with him, and that's not right, that's — 

They're his *brothers*, and they were supposed to do this all *along* — 

Though. 

Judging by the looks on Amina's and Marie-Angelique's faces when they get intro Treville's bedroom — 

Which has suddenly sprouted a *second* bed — 

(Needs must, brother — I hope you don't mind terribly...) 

Judging by the looks on the women's faces, it may have been best not to start *here* with the ridiculous shit. 

"Oh, do you *think* so, Jean-Armand?" 

"I —" 

"Put my husband down this *instant*, Kitos!" 

"*Gah* — anything you say, Marie-Angelique — and may I say you're looking —" 

"We told you to *hurry*," Amina says. 

"We —" 

"We did *not* mince words," Marie-Angelique says, crossing her arms beneath her very... very *swollen*-looking breasts. 

The skin looks *tight* — 

Like they're bigger than they should be — 

Like they're in the *process* of getting bigger as they all *speak* — wait. Treville looks *up*. "We're all *very* sorry, and we'd like to start apologizing immediately. We got —" 

"Caught up in the moment!" Reynard says — 

"That thing, right there," Kitos says — 

"And we're sorry," Treville says. "Very sorry. And we'd like to lick you. I'd like to lick you. I'd like to shove my tongue so far up your cunts I tickle your tonsils. I — wait, that got away from me —" 

Kitos splutters — 

Amina and Marie-Angelique *stare* at him — 

"— but I'm sorry. We're sorry. Please let me start licking you." 

Amina and Marie-Angelique turn to share a look of their *own*. 

Treville tries not to dance on his feet like he has to *piss* — 

Tries — 

Very *hard* — 

Amina is propped on his pillows. 

Amina is propped on his pillows on his *bed*, and she's still a little *spread*, and her scents are — 

Oh, her scents are so — 

"*Shit*, my brother, come *sniff* me!" 

"Oh, *thank* you —" 

"The *rest* of you can tell me what I've *missed*," Marie-Angelique says, and backs gracefully toward the other bed — 

"Oh — all of us, ma soeur?" 

Marie-Angelique gasps — and smiles, warm and sweet and so *pleased* — "Reynard..." 

Reynard bows — 

And Kitos does the same, just for a moment. "I've missed having sisters. Lots and *lots* of sisters, Marie-Angelique. Amina's been wonderful, but I'm... greedy." 

Marie-Angelique narrows her eyes. "So am I." 

Laurent growls. "It's one of your most attractive traits, wife." 

"Oh — husband." 

They'll be fine. Treville turns back to his Amina-love — 

To her wide, brown eyes — 

The black is *overtaking* the brown as he watches — 

(You do not see *how* you watch me, my brother.) 

Treville growls. "You're laid out like a *feast*." 

"Always you sound like you will *eat* —" 

"Let me eat *you*." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"*Let* me!" 

"Take — take your clothes *off*, my brother. Be naked *with* —" 

But he's already stripping himself down, fast and *efficient*. 

It's *his* bedroom, and it was his father's before him, so there are, thankfully, a lot of handy places for weapons, but there still aren't quite enough. Still, there's a table, and they can deal with the chaos of it all later. 

When he's down to his breeches, Amina gasps and rubs at herself between her breasts. It's so mesmerizing that it *stops* him. Her strong hand on her dark, smooth skin — 

The pound of her heart that he can *hear* — 

He *moves* for her — 

"Take them *off*, Jean-Armand!" 

He grunts and winces and *obeys*, just — and then he's naked, just naked, hard and aching and *animal* — 

"Oh, your *cock*..." 

Marie-Angelique gasps from across the *room* — 

"Come now, soeur, surely Kitos's magnificent cock is worth a stare like that, *too*," Reynard says, laughing and *teasing* — 

Treville tries not to *squirm* — 

He — 

"Amina-love, you've *seen* it before —" 

"Not *hard*. Come *here*." 

"I —" 

"*Now*!" 

Treville grunts and *moves*, crawling on at the foot of the bed — 

"Do not *stop* there, come *closer*, come — let me — you *know* I can barely *move* like this —" 

"You're so beautiful —" 

"I am a *whale* —" 

"That's me!" Kitos calls from across the room — 

"You *shut* it, Kitos, I am talking — no, keep *coming*, brother —" 

"I — I'm practically on *top* of you, Amina-love —" 

"Let me see you, let me touch you, let me *smell* you —" 

Treville *croons* and crawls closer, much — much closer — 

"Oh... oh... your scent..." 

"Do. Do you like —" 

She growls and reaches out to *grip* him, grip his *knot* — 

He *barks* — 

She *blushes*, just a little red under her brown, and — 

And Treville's blushing again, too. He can't not, he can't — "Amina — Amina-love —" 

She *squeezes* —

He barks twice — 

She squeezes *hard* — 

He *yips*, jerks and spatters her *avid* face with *slick* — "Oh, *fuck* — I'm —" 

But she bends him down to her mouth and takes him in, as far as she can in the awkward *position* — 

"*Amina*!" 

She closes her eyes and *sucks* — 

So *tight* — 

So — 

So *tight*, and her lips are plush, soft — 

She *grunts* around him — 

"Ungh — fuck —" 

"Mmmm..." 

"Nuh — no, don't —" 

She *glares* at him — 

"Amina, Amina, it's too — I'll *thrust*, I don't have enough *control* —" 

And then she pulls *back*. 

Treville slumps and *groans* — 

"You will straddle my chest —" 

"But — your swollen — you're *swollen* —" 

"You will stay *up* *over* my breasts —" 

"Oh, *fuck* —" 

"And you will fuck my *mouth*, because I have not had a man *do* that other than that fucking *Belgard* —" 

Treville *snarls* — 

"— in over a *year* —" 

"He — he's going to try to *kill* you! You and the *babe*!" 

"What? What are you —" 

"You can't — don't go back to him! Let me *tear him apart*, Amina-love! That petulant, greedy little *boil* is going to put off putting you aside until his bloody mother *orders* him to have you and the babe killed —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"— and it starts so much trouble and *pain*. It makes me *lose* you. Lose you *forever* — and not get Porthos back for twenty *years*." 

Amina pants — 

Shivers — and growls. 

"We should be able to tear him apart *together*, my brother!" 

"I *agree*!" 

"I remain — oh — *ohn* — simply fascinated by your — *nngh* — *violence*, sweet," Marie-Angelique says — 

Amina blinks — 

They *both* look over — and Kitos and Laurent are holding her spread and playing with her nipples while Reynard mouths and suckles at her cunt. 

Treville licks his lips — 

Looks at *Amina's* cunt — 

"*No*." 

Treville *whines* — 

"Oh, don't make that sound!" 

"You don't like it? I won't —" 

"It makes me want to be too nice to you!" And Amina laughs hard, reaching for him. "Come *here*!" 

"I —" 

"And, Marie-Angelique, I will be *happy* to teach you how to *brutalize* these idiots when you wish to —" 

"I — *oh*, I've never seen so many cocks twitch at *once*," Marie-Angelique says. "Reynard, did — nnh — oh — *OHN* —" 

Reynard is speaking sloppily and *extensively* into Marie-Angelique's cunt — 

She drums her chubby feet — 

Kitos and Laurent push her legs *back* — 

"AHN —" 

"*I* want pleasure now —" 

"Let me suck and fuck your cunt!" 

"Give me your cock before I punch you in the *balls*!" 

"Oh, *fuck*, Amina-love, I —" And Treville straddles her carefully, carefully, freezing when he brushes her right breast — 

"Come *on* —" 

He keeps coming , tucking his knees in against her fuzzy armpits — 

"Oh, *Treville*..." 

"I — I —"

"Hold it for me. Let me *see*." 

Treville *growls* and does just that, gripping it by the base — 

"Oh. Not the knot?"

"I — I — it's too sensitive?" 

She growls and grips it *immediately* — 

"*Amina*!" 

Marie-Angelique gasps and giggles and moans — "What are you *doing* to him, sweet?" 

"Making him *mine*!" 

"I *am* yours!" 

"Not enough," she says, and *squeezes* — 

He throws his head back and *howls* — 

"Oh, *shit*, Fearless —" 

She starts to *pump* him, and he's — 

Oh, he's dripping all over her *face*, dripping slick all over her beautiful *face* — 

He whuffs — 

Barks again — 

*Howls* again when she squeezes *hard* — 

Fuck fuck fuck — 

She pumps him just like — 

He can't — 

He *can't* — and then his cock *spits* slick — 

She gasps, mouth opening — 

Opening so *wide* — 

He growls and *knocks* her hands aside, and he's apologizing inside, he is, he *is*, but he needs her so badly, needs her right now, needs to push — 

In — 

In — 

She *swallows* him — 

Her eyes roll *back* — 

He *whines* — 

He grips the headboard — 

She swallows again, again — 

And he's fucking her just that — just that — 

Oh, it's not slow, it's not *gentle*, he's — 

He's knocking her *head* back, he's shoving his knot against her *lips*, he's — 

He's making her — 

She *kisses* it — 

He *grunts* — 

She *winks* — 

He *howls* again — 

Her eyes are *wide* — and then *narrow*, *hot* as he fucks her, as he — as he *fucks* her, thrusting in and in and *in*, taking her throat, having her — 

So *tight* — 

And he's still *dripping* — 

So — 

He's making her so dirty, so — 

His. 

(Yes!) 

Treville snarls and yanks the scarf from around her hair, digging his fingers into her tight, softly-woolly curls — 

Holding her *still* — 

(Oh, sweet *brother* —) 

Mine! 

(*Yes*!) 

*Mine*!

(Yes, yes — oh, spend down my *throat*!) 

He growls and fucks her hard, *hard* — 

He fucks *in*, and she still has his *knot* — 

She's *milking* him, and she's — 

Oh, she's *got* him, and it's so good, so perfect, so — 

He growls and *yanks* her hair — 

(Give it to me!) 

Squeeze *harder*! 

She digs her short *nails* in — 

Treville barks and snarls and fucks *down* into her throat, has her, *has* her, because he can't stop — 

He can't bloody *stop* — 

Her eyes are rolling *up* — 

Her scents are as high and wild as his *own*, animal-deep, animal-musky — 

His — 

His *sister*, part of him right down to the blood, part of him right down to their *child*, and this is dirtier, so much *dirtier*, and he's no one but himself — that makes it better. Sweeter. 

*Hotter*. 

"I *love* you!"

She *bucks* beneath him — 

Marie-Angelique screams high, high, whimpering and *high* — 

"Dip a finger into her arse, Reynard," Laurent says. "Not too deeply — she likes that quite a bit." 

Reynard's desperate *curse* is muffled *and* perfectly understandable — 

But nothing is easier to understand than Amina's free hand on his arse — 

Amina *clawing* his arse and *yanking* — 

Demanding *harder* — 

He *gives* it to her — 

She squeezes his knot *again* — 

He howls — 

She slips two fingers into his cleft and *presses* on his *hole* — 

He *chokes* on a bark and *spends*, coughing and grunting and rutting, just *rutting* — 

He can't stop — 

He won't — 

He won't *stop* — 

(Oh, sweet brother...) 

"*Amina*!" 

She kisses his knot again and again and — 

She — 

He *spills* and he — 

Oh in her — 

In her *mouth*, and it's leaking right down over her *cheek*, and he can't — 

He wants — 

(Pull *out*!) 

He does, scooting *back* — and spurting his last on her leaking right breast. It. 

So. 

He groans. 

He sways and he's — 

"Jean-Armand, if you faint on me, I will *stab* you." 

"Yes, Amina, I won't faint. I just — I'm um. Can I —" 

"*Yes*!" 

And Treville *stands* over her and moves — much easier to avoid that wonderful belly that way — and *then* bends over her breast and — 

Licks. 

And laps.

And *suckles*.

Suckles her and him together and it's so good, so good, so sweet and bitter and thick and slick and musky and dark and light and *perfect*, so bloody *perfect* — 

She *moans* — 

She *moans* — 

Marie-Angelique *shouts* — "Oh! Oh, Kitos, your *hair*!" 

"Kindly get it *all* wet, sister," he says, and his *growl* is muffled — 

"Ah, oui, soeur, he is *very* dry," Reynard says. 

"And — and you?" 

"I have the *strangest* taste in my mouth, soeur... perhaps you will investigate?" 

Marie-Angelique giggles and gasps — 

And a shadow falls over him and Amina — 

Tall and *big* — 

"Little brother..." 

Treville manages to look up from where he's all but *mauling* Amina's breast — 

She's still *dripping* — 

And Laurent is licking his lips. 

He is... 

He's licking his lips and staring down at *Amina*. 

"Oh, brother..." And Treville looks to Amina — 

He can't help but *worry* — 

She's always been *his* — 

She's always seemed to *want* — but... 

She's laughing ruefully? Reaching for his face and — 

"Amina-love?" 

"Marie-Angelique and I... we talked about *many* things. And... decided many things," she says, and turns to Laurent. And *beckons*. 

Treville *grunts* — 

Laurent shudders all *over*, big cock *jerking* — "Thank you. I... I don't —"

"Do you want my milk, too?" 

*Laurent* grunts — 

Treville's tongue lengthens without his *permission* until he can *pull* himself back under control — 

Laurent stares at *both* of them so *hungrily* — 

And Amina growls a laugh. "Come onto the bed, Laurent," she says, and pats the space on her other side. 

"Oh. Here." 

"Oh, yes..." 

And Laurent crawls on gently, careful not to dislodge any of her pillows — but he can't seem to stop himself from cupping her belly, from *feeling* her — 

Stroking her — 

Amina laughs again. "Marie-Angelique says you do this to her *all* the time." 

"I — pardon? Oh — I apologize —" 

"Don't. I want you to touch me," she says, but she's blushing, she's — 

Oh... 

"Amina-love..." 

She gasps a little — 

She turns to him — 

She licks her swollen lips — "Treville... I... have not done *this*." 

"Not with... two men?" 

"Not with two — or more — anyone!" And she laughs again, nervous and hungry at once — 

He can *smell* it — 

He — 

He *nips* her nipple — 

"*Ah* — *Treville* —" 

"Let us take care of you." 

"You — you — oh..." 

"Let us... make it good." 

She parts her lips — 

Blushes more *deeply* — 

You're so *beautiful*...

"Oh — my *brother*..." 

He rumbles and *laps* — "Tell me. *Tell* me." 

"I —" 

Marie-Angelique moans loudly, *desperately* — "Oh — oh, you're *lifting* me —" 

"Need a better angle, mum," Kitos says —

"Are you comfortable?" And Reynard is managing to sound both solicitous and ready to fuck a *knothole* in a *tree* — 

Laurent coughs — 

Amina *giggles* — 

"We heard that, Fearless," Kitos says, and, "You'll get yours." Or possibly something *else*, because it's *muffled* — 

So *quiet* — 

Marie-Angelique *shrieks* — 

"Does he have your pretty arse, soeur?" 

"Yes — *yes*!" 

"May I have your pretty swollen breasts?" 

"Oh — oh, fuck, *yes*!" 

And Reynard *growls* — 

Amina *groans* — "I want that." 

Laurent and Treville look up at *once* — 

"Oh — I mean — not *now* — *fuck*. I hate being so *big*!" 

"You're beautiful —" 

"Shut it! I can't *move* the way I want to!" 

"I... if I may?" 

"*What*?" 

Laurent licks his lips. "*We* can move you... however you wish to be moved." 

Amina's eyes are wide once more... 

She blinks and *moans* — 

She wants — 

Treville can feel her, feel the parts of her that *are* him now, and he knows that she wants her independence, knows that this would be *easier* for her if she could do things for herself, *choose* things for herself — with and *without* her body. 

And... 

That's hard. 

Treville builds a wall around just the two of them in his mind, holds it hard and steady — 

(My brother —) 

My *sister*. I will *always* take care of you. 

(I take care of *myself*.) 

I promise to get the bloody hell out of your way and make sure that nothing will *stop* you from taking care of yourself... when you want to.

She moans — 

She *moans* — 

(And... when I need to?) 

*Yes*. 

(And... at all other times...) 

You're my sister. I'd be a piss-poor brother if I didn't take care of you right and proper. 

(Oh, this is so... what are they all going to *think* of me?) 

That you're the best, wildest, most beautiful, most open, most loving, most giving, *boldest* woman of all — 

(Jean-*Armand* —) 

And that *I'm* the luckiest man of all to get to have you, he says, pointedly. *Heavily*. 

She pauses. 

She *looks* at him. 

(*You* get to have me.) 

I do. 

(*No* one else...?) 

No one I don't agree to. 

(Oh, you *think* so, do you?) 

Treville lolls his tongue. 

(I should crush your balls under my fat *arse*!) 

Treville blinks — 

And twitches — 

I... 

And Amina giggles — 

Chokes and laughs *hard* — 

*Yanks* down the wall separating them from the others — 

Yes? 

"*Yes*," she says, and turns to Laurent with a *wide* smile. "Will you be my brother, too, Laurent...?" 

Laurent *grunts* again and strokes down over her belly-button — "Let me. Please let me." 

Amina licks her lips. "My breasts *hurt*, brothers." 

Treville blinks — "Oh — what —" 

"What can we —" 

"There is too much *milk*." 

*Treville* grunts. "Amina... *fuck*." 

She laughs low. "Marie-Angelique was kind enough to... help me with this earlier..." 

"It was — nnh — *NNH* — no trouble, at all!" 

"Oh, *wife* —" 

"She's *delicious*, husband..." 

Amina laughs more and grins. "The baby is *close*. I make more milk every *day*. They say, the more milk a woman makes, the *bigger* the babe will be...?" And she looks to *him*. 

"He'll be bloody *magnificent*, Amina-love —" 

Kitos makes smacking, humming, *sucking* noises — 

Marie-Angelique groans *deep* — 

Kitos pulls *back* — "He grows up looking like he can toss people Basset's size through *walls*, Amina," he says, and then dives *right* back into Marie-Angelique's arse — 

"*Oh* —" 

"You — you can see —" And Reynard *growls* and *crushes* Marie-Angelique's breasts against his cock — 

Thrusts hard, *fast* — 

*Rides* her — 

Thumbs her *nipples* — 

Marie-Angelique *sobs* — 

"You can see why I was *jealous*, non?" And then Reynard laughs, *pinches* her nipples and rides her *harder* — 

Amina *moans* — "*Milk* me." 

"Both — both of —" 

"*Now*!" 

They fall on her, *take* her — 

Laurent moans around her nipple *immediately* — 

He's *shaking* — but Treville is already sucking, already *suckling*, and she still tastes a little like his spend, like his sweat and spit and — 

His sister, *his* — 

*Not* all his, not anymore, but she was his *first* — 

He growls around her nipple — 

Claws her chest — 

She cries out and *arches* — 

And — he can do more. 

*They* can do more, especially since Laurent is finally lipping a little, mouthing and — 

*Suck* her, brother, suck her like you want to suck *me* — 

He sucks *hard* — 

Amina *howls* — "Not — not — oh, don't *stop*!" 

(Your... your *taste*...) 

Amina *sobs* — 

Shudders — 

*Quakes* — "Do you — do you *like* —" 

(I love it, I want more, please give me more, please let me suckle from you —) And the rest of that is an internal *groan* as Laurent figures out how to *knead* her breast for more — 

Amina *keens* — 

Treville takes more of her breast into his *mouth* — 

Kneads *that* way — 

"Brother — *brothers*! Oh — oh, *fuck*!" 

And she's drumming her *feet* — 

She's — 

Oh, Treville *has* to, has to reach down past her belly for her sex, so wet, so *wet* — 

So swollen and *hot* — 

She *shrieks* — 

She spurts from her piss-hole before he even gets his *bearings* — 

She — 

Oh, *Amina*... 

But he doesn't stop looking. He — 

He'd *gotten* advice, all those years ago, when he was trying not to look like a buggerer, and, more to the point, he *has* years of watching Reynard and Kitos with girls and women. 

He knows — there. 

Right there, and maybe not too hard — 

She *sobs* again — 

She kicks *out* — 

She spreads her legs *wide* — 

Offering, *offering* — 

He rubs her, trying soft circles — 

"*Harder* — Treville — you *must*!" 

Yes, he *must*, and he nibbles her nipple more, too, suckles, *works* her — 

She *wails* — 

*Bounces* her whole big *body* — 

Laurent holds her *down* by her *belly* — 

She *screams* — 

Her pleasure-button *flexes* — 

Treville *pants* around her breast — 

"Don't *stop*!" 

He suckles, he suckles her so hard, so sweet, and the flow of milk is *slowing*, but — 

What must this *feel* like? 

Is it a tickle? A pull? 

Does it feel like it comes from — 

And then Amina *slams* them with what she's feeling, with the — the *fire* of what she's feeling, the pull, the prickling waves of it rising and *slamming* through her — 

The — 

The feel of Treville's *calluses* just a little to the right of where she *needs* them right now — 

He *moves* them — 

They're all *groaning* — 

Bucking and sobbing and sucking, suckling, *pulling*, yes, *pulling*, drinking her down, drinking her *dry* — 

*Feeding* on her, and she's so good, *delicious*, just like Marie-Angelique said, and — 

And oh, God, Treville wants to feed on her, too, wants to *batten* on her, suck her down, fuck them both, make them *fat* with *his* babes — 

Laurent grunts and growls and pulls *back* — 

"No —" 

"I *want* that!" 

And Marie-Angelique gasps and *yells*, shuddering — 

Treville can *see* her shaking and rocking and tossing her *head* — 

"Oh — ohn, oui, oui, *do* it!" And Reynard fucks her breasts harder, *harder* — 

And Kitos rises up — 

Pushes into her *cunt* — 

Marie-Angelique *howls* — 

"Ah, *merde*," Reynard says, spurting all over her chest and *face* — 

And Treville can't not — 

Can't not remember *that* night, when Kitos and Reynard had shared one woman while Treville was fucking a boy — 

When Reynard had *fed* the woman Kitos's excess spend from her own cunt on his fingertips — 

"*Shit*, Basset —" 

And Reynard feeds Marie-Angelique *his* spend, laughing and moaning and swaying — 

And Treville can't stop suckling, rubbing, *needing* — 

Laurent *groans* — 

Looks back and forth — 

*Takes* Amina's breast back into his mouth for four *hard* pulls that make Amina whimper and squirm — 

Laurent holds her *still* — 

And Amina gives them all an image of her on her side —

Her with her leg *up* — 

"Please please *please*!" 

And Marie-Angelique groans like an *animal*, low and lowing, *shaking* — 

Kitos is fucking her so *slowly* — 

And they. 

They all want the same things. 

They all want the same bloody — 

Treville pulls *back* — 

Laurent moves *with* him — 

And they work together to get Amina on her side, to get her *comfortable*, to get the pillows just right — 

"Please, just *hurry* —" 

And they can do that, *too*, because Treville needs to be behind her, needs to get close, press *close*, snuffle up into her soft hair, lick her neck, cup her hip, stroke her hot *skin* — 

She's *panting* — 

And Laurent is behind *him*. 

Laurent is... 

Is. 

Spreading his *arse* — 

"*Laurent* —" 

"Don't say no," He says, and, "Please," and — 

The first lick is so *slow* — 

So — 

Treville barks in Amina's *ear* — 

She *jerks* — "Brother —" 

"He's — he's — my arse —" 

"Oh... oh, my brother, get *in* me!" 

"I —" 

"*Do* it!" 

Treville *whines* — 

Laurent *licks* him again, *again* — 

Treville *barks* again, but he's already lifting Amina's leg, already — 

His whole body is *shaking* — 

He can't — 

He doesn't have the *finesse* for this — 

He can't possibly — 

Amina is *groaning* — 

Shoving herself *back* against him as much as she *can* — 

She's so *wet* — 

And Reynard is up on the pillows, Reynard is feeding Marie-Angelique the tip of his messy cock, having her suckle him even though he must be sore, having her *hurt* him — 

He's baring his *teeth* — 

*He's* shaking — 

He's — 

And then Laurent *pauses* licking him, pauses — 

Pauses *tasting* him — 

Takes his cock in hand — 

Treville *gasps* — 

"Here. Here, brother," Laurent says, and guides him — 

In — 

Treville *croons* — 

Gasps and gasps and *croons* — 

"Oh, brother... you..." 

Amina clenches round him *immediately* — 

Sobs and tries to *ride* him immediately — 

"Give me — oh, *give* me —" 

"*Amina* —" 

"*Do* it!" 

Treville *thrusts* — 

Amina screams like a *wolf* — 

Like — 

Like his *sister*, and Treville loves her, needs her, needs to *fuck* her, but you're supposed to bloody wait, make sure, take time, make *sure* — 

He holds her — 

He strokes and pets her — 

He laps and laps at her neck, her shoulders, her face — 

"Oh — my brother, you are so *big* in me," she whispers, *whispers*, and it makes Treville feel gigantic, feel like Kitos, feel — 

But — "Is it too much —" 

"If you pull out I will *geld* you!" 

Treville laughs helplessly — "*Yes*, Amina-love, but —" 

"It — it's not too much — just — pull my hip *back* —" 

"Like this?" 

"A little — a little more — oh. *Oh*." 

"Like —" 

"*Fuck* me!" 

Treville growls and pulls out, pulls out and *shoves* in — 

"Ai!" 

"*Amina* —"

"Again!" 

He does it — 

"Ai — *fuck* —" 

"Oh, Amina —" 

"Please don't *stop*!" 

"I —" And he *means* to say that he *won't*, but Laurent's got him by the hips again, Laurent's *spreading* him again — 

*Riding* his *thrusts* — 

Shoving his face right *in* — 

Shoving his — 

Tongue — 

Treville *howls* — 

Treville feels Amina's *question* for that, feels — 

He *shares* what Laurent is doing to him, shares the *delve* and *sweep* of that strong tongue, that — 

Oh, so *wet* — 

So — 

It's been *years* since a man has — 

Since he's *let* someone get him this — 

And then Laurent *growls* — 

He *clenches* — 

Laurent *forces* his tongue in — 

Treville * grips* Amina and *shakes* — 

*Bucks* — 

She *shouts* — "Do this to *me*! Do — let me — *fuck* me!" 

"I'll give you *everything*!" 

"*Fuck* — *fuck* —" 

And that's what he's doing, that's — 

He's *taking* Laurent's rhythm, shoving *in* every time he slips out with his tongue, pulling out every time he pushes — 

In — 

So *wet* — 

They're both so *wet* — 

She's clenching and *clenching* around him, she's —

Oh, God, he's fucking his *sister*, and all he wants is to *ram* himself inside her, *knot* her — 

(Not yet, brother. Not — yet...) Laurent says, gripping him tighter and fucking him *faster* with his tongue — 

"*Please*," Treville says, and he's — "*Please*!" 

And he's working himself back and forth between them, trying — 

Trying not to do it too *hard* — 

Trying — 

Amina reaches back and *claws* him — 

He jerks and *slams* in — 

His knot starts to *breach* — 

She cries out like a *bird* — 

She — 

Oh, he can feel her — 

She's on the verge of *spending* — 

(And so are you,) Laurent says, and *kisses* his hole — 

Treville *screams*, freezes — 

No — 

He *fucks* Amina, shoves back against Laurent's face, gives them, *gives* them, just — 

No, not his knot, not yet, not *yet*, and he can touch her, play with her, rub her swollen-tight nipples — 

"N-no — too sensitive!" 

He moves his hand to her sex, her pleasure-button, swollen-tight in a different *way* — 

It *flexes* — 

She *shouts* — 

Shoves *back* against him — 

Clenches *hard* — 

He shoves in and in and — 

Fuck, it's so slick, so hot, so — 

So *tight*, and he already knew she hadn't had a real man, he already knew — 

Oh, God, he wants to stretch her, open her wide with his brothers, stretch her out of *shape* — 

"*BROTHER*!" 

"I'm *sorry* —" 

"Don't you — dare — *fuck me hard*!" 

He grunts and *rams* in, and he's aware that he's made it impossible for Laurent to eat his arse, but — 

"All is well, brother. I brought the oil." 

"The — the —" 

And then there are two thick fingers shoving *deep* — 

Treville *howls* — 

Stutters to a *stop* — 

"*Move*," Laurent says, and he does, he does, he — 

He sobs and whimpers and whines and *fucks* Amina, and she's all heat and softness and sweet, sweet *friction*, and Laurent — 

Laurent is heat and *hardness* and *rough* friction, calluses, opening his arse by main *force*, no —

No *gentleness* — 

"Did you want any?" 

"*Fuck*, no!" 

Laurent growls and *twists* his fingers — 

Treville's rhythm *stutters* again — 

"Don't *stop*," Amina says, and she's *ramming* herself against him as best as she can, she's — 

Oh, she's *taking* the forward curve of his knot every time now, opening for him so sweet, so *sweet* — 

He can't — 

He can't *stop* her, can't *disappoint* her — 

He has to give her himself, give her absolutely bloody *everything*, not stop, not stop even though Laurent is setting him on *fire* with his fingers, even though he's — 

He's just *working* Treville — 

Opening him so *ruthlessly* — 

Does he do this to Marie-Angelique? 

"*Yes*," Laurent says, and fucks him *faster* — 

Treville flexes open *helplessly* — 

"Oh... good boy. *Good* boy." 

Treville barks and fucks *Amina* faster —

"Do you like that, little brother?" 

Treville *pants* — 

"Do you like being my good boy?" 

"I — *I* —" 

"Do you like being my good *dog*?" 

"My —" Amina groans — "He is *our* dog!" 

Laurent grunts — "My *mistake*," he says, and twists his fingers again — 

Treville howls and *pounds* Amina — 

Amina *screams* — "Oh — *oh* — *yes*!" 

"He will always be ours now. Won't you, little brother." 

"*Yes*! *Please*!" 

"Beg more," Laurent says, and *crooks* his fingers — 

Treville's vision goes *white* — 

He doesn't know what sounds he's *making* — 

His hips feel — 

Feel *oiled* — 

He's *slamming* himself back and forth and back and forth and — "*Please*! Please fuck me! Please *fuck* me!" 

And Amina is sobbing — 

And Laurent is panting like a *bellows* — 

And Treville is grunting like — like an *animal*, he's an animal, he's always been an *animal*, and this — 

This is so — 

Laurent starts fucking him so *hard*, shoving his fingers in so *hard*, and it feels like Treville's knot gets deeper every *time*, like — 

Like Amina is *blooming* around him — 

Marie-Angelique *screams* around Reynard's cock — 

Screams again — 

Again and again and — 

"Oh — oh, *shit*, sister, you're clenching so —" And Kitos *roars* a growl and fucks her *hard* — 

Rocks the whole *bed* — 

Laurent pulls out and comes back with *three* — 

Treville *howls* and *shoves* — 

In — 

Amina howls with him, *sings* a howl *with* him — 

His knot *pops* in — 

She's kicking her feet — 

Flexing and clenching and —

Treville snarls and *bites* her, right on her shoulder — 

Her howl becomes a *scream* — 

She *spurts* — 

She flexes and flexes and *clenches* — 

And Treville has to stay and feel it, just *feel* it, hold her still and steady — 

"Oh — oh, God, I — I *can't*," Laurent says, pulling out fast enough to make Treville *bark* — and coming back with his big, blunt *cock* — 

So huge — 

So hot and slick and ready for him, *needy* for him — 

And Kitos is growling constantly — 

"Take it, soeur, take my cock, *suck* it —" 

And Laurent is pushing in, in, *in*, and it's not slow, not *slow*, but it's so steady, so — 

He's panting and *blowing* against the back of Treville's neck — 

He's — 

He's blowing like an overworked *horse* — 

*Gripping* Treville's *hip* — 

Pushing *in* — 

Filling Treville *up* — 

He's never had anything so *deep* — 

Treville *bites* deeper — 

Amina *kicks* again, clenches and *howls* again — 

And then Laurent is snugged up tight — 

So tight — 

And Laurent bites *him* — 

And Treville can't be still, can't — 

He *bucks* — 

Amina *yips* — 

Treville flushes all *over* and *ruts*, ruts in, ruts *in* — 

And then Laurent growls and *grinds* — 

Treville's *belly* drops — 

He *pants* — 

Stutters — 

His *vision* stutters — 

And then it goes *completely* for a moment, because it feels like Laurent is taking his insides with him when he pulls out, feels — 

But he shoves back *in*, *jarring* everything back into place — 

*Shoving* Treville *into* Amina — 

Amina *yips* again — 

Treville *grips* her — 

"Ah — ahn — *merde*, your *mouth*, soeur — *yes*! Take it all!" 

And Marie-Angelique hums, gulps, *slurps* and gulps *more* — 

And Laurent pulls out and shoves *in* again, rocking them both, *driving* them both, and it's good, so *good* — 

Again — 

*Again* — 

Treville *howls* for it, begs, tries to *beg* — 

(I *hear* you, little brother...) 

Yes, *please* — 

And Laurent is fucking him so hard, fucking him so hard and sweet and — 

So *good* — 

Amina *barks* — 

Sister sister sister — 

(M-my *brother! Oh — *fuck*! I feel you, I feel you so much, you're IN me you're — oh —) 

And she shares the *waves* of feeling slamming through her, the need, the — 

Oh, so full, so stuffed, so — 

So swollen and *sore*, but it's so good, it's so right, it's finally so *right*, and she'll never give it *up* — 

"*Never*," Kitos roars, and they can all feel him losing it, feel him spending, feel him *filling* Marie-Angelique — 

She's quivering for it — 

She's — 

Oh, clenching and working and *milking* him — 

Treville gasps for it and bites *Amina* again, licks, laps, slurps and sucks and ruts and *rides*, *gets* ridden, because Laurent is panting hard and fucking *harder* — 

So — 

Bruising Treville's *hips* — 

Holding him so tight and *snarling* — 

(You taught me what need MEANT.) 

Treville's body tries to open wider, tries to make *room* for Laurent, tries — 

He has to take it — 

(Yes. You. *Do*.) 

And Treville's eyes are rolling up, his mind is — 

He can't focus, he can't think about anything but Amina's belly against his palm and Amina's cunt around his cock and Laurent's cock *reaming* him open — 

He's nothing but a *fucktoy* like this and he'd never thought it'd feel so *good* — 

Laurent *gasps* — 

Bites his *ear* — 

Treville *sobs* — 

"I want to *use* you!" 

"Please! Please —" 

And Amina *clenches* again, clenches again and again — 

Howls — 

Oh, she's *spending* again — 

"Then we must make it *perfect*," Laurent says, and fucks him *viciously* hard, *pounding* him into her — 

Amina's howls spirals up into a *shriek* — 

The bed is *wet* beneath them — 

She's so tense — 

So hot and sweet and musky and *tense* — 

Treville laps and laps at her *helplessly* — 

Laps and *sucks* at her sweat — 

*Ruts* — 

She *slumps* — 

He *groans* — 

He needs more, he needs — 

(My... my brother... do not *stop*,) she says, laughing softly and moaning, *moaning*, and he won't stop, he *can't* with Laurent *fucking* him — 

So hot —

So *hot* — 

"Oh — I —" And then Laurent *grunts* and changes his *angle* — "I *forgot*," he says, and *rams* against Treville's pleasure-button — 

Treville *yelps* — 

"That sound arouses me *unconscionably*. Make it *again*," Laurent says, and rams him *harder* — 

Treville yelps again and whimpers, whimpers, and he's still *rutting*, but his bollocks have drawn up and he can't — 

He can't fucking catch a *breath* with Laurent fucking him this way, making him — 

Making him cry *out* — 

Like a *puppy* — 

"Oh — oh, *God*, little brother — *again*!" 

Treville *whines* — 

"HNH —" 

And Laurent slams in *hard* — 

So — 

Slams in *again* — 

*Shudders* — 

*Stills* — 

And spills. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

So hot and wet and — 

And Treville is shuddering and whimpering and desperate, fucking *desperate*, blushing all over and needing just what he's bloody *getting*, but — 

"Just. A *moment*," Laurent snarls, spurting and spurting and — 

Fuck, filling him *up* — 

Laurent *pants* — 

Groans — 

"You're — you're just a little. More. *Mine* —" 

"*Ours*," Amina says. 

"Yes — that's what I — meant —" 

Kitos booms laughter from across the room — "Sure you did, brother." 

Marie-Angelique giggles while Reynard snickers — 

And Laurent groans and spills just a little bit more. "I — oh. Oh, so wet *around* myself. I. But. This," Laurent says, pulling out slowly and steadily — 

"Wait —" 

"No," he says, and when he's all the way out, he shoves back in with his three still-slick *fingers* — 

Treville *barks* — 

"*Take* this," he says, and starts *reaming* him — 

Starts — 

Treville barks again — 

*Again* — 

"Howls* — 

Laurent curls his fingers *up* — 

Treville *yelps* again — 

"You're going to make me need to *fuck* you again —" 

"Oh — *fuck* —" 

"Say you want it." 

"I want it!" 

"Say. Say you'll always take it from me..." 

"I will! Oh — oh, fuck, *Laurent*, your *fingers* —" 

"Are they big in you?" 

Treville sobs and clenches and *whines* — 

"Answer." 

"*Please* —" 

"Answer*." 

"Big! They're *big*!" 

"Do you *like* that." 

"I love it, I want it, I *want* — oh, fuck, you're making my knot swell so *big* —" 

Laurent *grunts* — 

Crooks *harder* — 

Treville *croons* — 

Pants and *drools* on *Amina* — 

Slurps it up and ruts and ruts and holds her — 

He can barely *move* in her — 

"I'm holding you *tight*, my brother," she says, growling low and *panting* — 

"Oh — *shit* —" 

"You — you will not get *away* from us," Laurent says — 

"I don't *want* to!" 

"Not even to get to *this* bed, cher...?" 

Treville's cock *spasms* — 

Amina *giggles* — 

Flexes — 

She barely — 

Barely opens at *all* — 

"What do you *expect*?"

And Marie-*Angelique* giggles — "I'm in the same — same *boat*. It feels like Kitos has been fucking me with a *bell* tower." 

Amina and Marie-Angelique giggle *together* — 

And then Laurent starts working in a *fourth* finger — 

Treville's *eyes* start rolling *back* — 

And Laurent grips his *bollocks* with his other hand. "No. *Focus*," he says, and *squeezes* — 

Treville *barks* — 

Shudders and *bucks* — 

And then that fourth finger is in, all the way — 

Oh, God — 

Oh, fuck, fuck, so — 

And the first thrust makes everything *bright* behind his eyes — 

And the next thrust makes his *voice* crack on a scream — 

And the next — 

He can't — 

He's shaking and *howling* and *spending*, losing himself, filling his Amina-love — 

Filling her, and — 

(And one day the babes will be ours, my brother...)

He spasms and *spurts* more — 

Laurent *crooks* his fingers, all of his fingers — 

Treville *screams* — 

Spurts so — so *much* — 

He's *clutching* at Amina — 

And she's holding him in return, holding and petting him, inside and *out* — 

*Soothing* him as he spurts *more* — 

(The way you soothed me...) 

But did he? 

(Yes. Shh...) 

And she's *cradling* him through it, cradling him even while Laurent *works* him through it, massaging his pleasure-button and stretching him and making him *ache* in every best way — 

Every — 

Fuck, his knot is swelling so *big* — 

It's starting to *hurt* to spill — 

He can *feel* Amina shivering and moaning *inside* for it — 

Taking him. 

Taking him. 

He shudders as he spills a little more — 

He shudders more and slumps — 

And Laurent just keeps *working* him for a little bit longer. 

"Enjoying you." 

Treville smiles loosely. He hasn't felt this drugged on laudanum. "You do that, brother." 

"I will." 

Treville closes his eyes for a moment — 

And opens them again when the bed dips — Marie-Angelique is crawling on in front of Amina and cuddling *right* up. 

"Got detached from your bell tower, then?" 

"Spoken like a man who *doesn't* have half my husband's *hand* up his arse." 

"Well. There is *that*." 

Kitos comes over and bends down to check — and whistles. "Buggering hell, Fearless, we're going to be able to use that channel for horsemanship training now." 

Treville *snorts* — 

"*Jean-Armand*." 

"Amina —" 

"Do not snort in my *hair*!" 

"You didn't mind me getting my fluids on your other places!" 

"Those were my other *places*. And I didn't give you permission to take my scarf off!" 

"I —" 

She giggles — "I'm going to teach you how to fix my hair for this. And it's going to take *hours* of your violent playtime." 

"Oh, fuck. I mean! I'll do it!" 

Marie-Angelique laughs and nuzzles in to kiss Amina, soft and slow and wet and — dirty. 

Very — 

Just. 

Like — 

Reynard, who was busily sniffing Marie-Angelique's chemise, looks like someone's hit him with a plank, so Treville feels justified in feeling that way, but — 

"They are adorable, are they not?" 

Marie-Angelique licks the corners of Amina's mouth. "They truly are, sweet. Let's think about how to reward ourselves for having the good sense to choose them." 

Amina — rumbles. 

Treville's knot swells *more*. 

It will hopefully *stop* doing that — and start *shrinking* — before the next time Amina has to use the chamberpot. She really does have to do that *frequently* these — 

(Don't think about that!) 

He stops thinking about that. 

He buries his face in against her sweaty, slick, fragrantly *musky* throat and thinks about *that*, instead. 

Especially since Laurent is showing no signs whatsoever of removing those fingers. 

end.


End file.
